There is this drawer in my desk filled with folders that contain all the stories, poetry, and journal type stuff that I have written over the years. Most of the time once it’s done it moves out of my brain and into a folder almost never to be seen again … a way to unload baggage. For some reason, I started rummaging around and this one from 30 years ago bubbled up.
All the flights of imagination and the need to record the passing of our days end up passing through our fingers on the way to being forgotten until stirred in the dust of “what in the world is this stuff?” It just may be why all of us lovers of words write by the light of a computer screen. Or maybe, just maybe, inside all of those nice, average folks that you bump into every day of your lives have another secret identity and lead hidden invisible and exciting existences just waiting for that bat signal beamed on the moon.
FIRST PERSON SINGULAR
What will you be in that far off time?
An “authentic eccentric” was the reply.
How “authentic?” the question once more.
Something never done before.
Pickles with marshmallows
Snails with jam
Deep dives in shallows.
The great, “I AM”
Lace wings on elephants
Ruffles on beans.
“Just different”, I said with stubborn pride
Let all the insides hang outside.
I’ll roll down hillsides right after church
Strings of lovers will be left in the lurch.
I settled for less and became almost dull
Except for a pen that recorded it all.
Moonlight on fountains
Tumbled sheets on a bed
Children, grandchildren where has it all led?
What was expected was dutifully done.
But despite outward appearances
I’m a singular ONE.
