"We are all in a house of mirrors.
Always take a second and a third glance."
JOGGING THE MEMORY
Some will see these words
and they will be nothing more than passing birds.
Fortune cookie nonsense.
A nomenclature that doesn't light up the cells or the bones.
No harm, no foul.
We'll see you on the other side.
Others will hear these words leap off the screen
and there'll be a resonance
like an old familiar fragrance
that reminds them of that place
where we once all felt at home.
Maybe this is a funeral.
Maybe it's a feast.
I'm hungry for something real; aren't you?
Maybe this poem is an angel arriving on the scene.
A well-meaning soul,
confused by the grasping chaos of the world,
who just found the trailhead
that leads out of it.
Whatever, and however, and whenever...
the words stitched here are woven from a pulsing thread.
That thread ran through the sun and the moon
and your grandmother's hands
as she held your tender form
in your early days of being here.
Whatever the labels and connections,
whatever relational bonds were
or were not
'in place' upon your arrival,
has been pulling for you
since the beginning,...
to remind you of that tonight.
MOVEMENT AS RECLAMATION
It's not going to manifest from just sitting there.
Sitting has its place.
Sit like a mountain.
But there's quite an ancient fractal memory
that has taken up residence inside your bones
and the only way its secrets will be released to you
is if you
(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com
sound: top: Nangoku / Mist / Chihei Hatakeyama