Sunday, December 27, 2015

Creation Mist

Raven Talking His Tale
—Anonymous Photo

—Smith, Cleveland, OH

Whole bunch of what-if maybe theories
on the how what why where when
of us, this, that, everything, nothing,
imaginary numbers, what's normal,
what's warm, what's real, what's what.

Such as we're all holograms
pre-programmed and pre-tuned
and proof lies in the low rumble static
left over from the enchantment.

Or we crawled from mud to sea to land
to be one in evolution
to which I say
"Are we not men?"

Then there's the six-day magic act
creating questionable design
which in the beginning was word
but now's just plain weird
and really not working all that well.

Of course there's the no-causers
with their no beginning
and no end in explanation.

Some say we fell from the sun
as we reached for the moon
slowly eaten month by month
then regurgitated into three kingdoms
each with its own bell
which oozes into sometimes heaven
sometimes hell.

Raven talks one tale,
coyote cons another,
trickster and night ever close
with one swallowing the other.

Add in the earth divers,
chaos creation,
the black hole spark stars,
random adaption,
the purposeful fade,
the ever expanding or soon to collapse,
men as birds and women as water,
plus the endless mirror worlds,
parallel dimensions,
alternate escalations,
the mobius becomes Sisyphus bound,
and zounds we go round again.

Yet what the why don't matter fly
cuz we still gotta try
to pay the rent
change the diaper
see what's spent
avoid the crapper
take next step
and next and next and nexter
until final chapter.

Blood still drips
tears still fall
babies always stumble
adults often appall.

So background screed matters
not at all.


—Medusa, with thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today's fine poem.