the stories


There are stories in every place, every time and every way. They hover at the red rims of almost wet eyes, they pulse in the veins of a wishful hand extended, they queue up for nirvana at the old monumental monstrosities carved with love signs over the years.

They can be felt in the vortex of a growling storm bringing hope and fear to parched lands, in unleashed winds that whoop in glee as they suddenly find flatland in the dark. in the rich contralto of sweetness in the voice of a gentle soul, in the trapped anxiety struggling vainly at the edge of the furious diatribe,

There are whole sagas missed in the silences at the other end of a phone line, in the harsh click of high heels begging to be heard, in the rattle of the decrepit airconditioner, the only dirge for another dying dream

They squat hopefully on the sides of busy roads, crying to the echoing loneliness in steel glass corridors. they vibrate with the rumblings of an unhappy body, the ravings of an unhappy mind.

Poems are written every moment by fingers in the hair that speak an unconscious language of want, by the quickly stifled smile that made one minute of one life just that bit more bearable, the head bowed in comatose weariness begging for a shoulder to lean on, just for a minute,

They mushroom in our head into instant pictures as we inhale, smell that hint of feral somebodyness that makes us all live and love without forgetting, our whole life is prismed as we breathe in

We have only a few random moments to live, to learn, to understand and grow, then fade away enriched, or burn in eternal puzzlement. When we stop using our eyes and ears, our hands and hearts, within and without, the stories, they all whisper by in the dark, laughing, crying, hoping, dying, without a ripple in the fabric of sound,

There are unfathomable universes waiting for birth and rebirth, for someone to throw caution to the winds, and tell them like they are, tell them like we are. Each of us, everyone, everything has a bit of the priceless to impart, we chant them in groups, shout them out in numbed realities, waft them into an uncertain breeze, wear them like another skin

Just lay a finger on the pulse of the tangled skein of chaos that we live in, as it tries to unravel, forced to break into order before its time, and life and the meaning of everything will cease to perplex, will cease to exist, become clearer than it ever can be

Life, without an airbrush, does not fail to resonate with every kind of human

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2 Responses

  1. That was brilliantly written! Your words paint extraordinary images! Love your choice of imagery!

    well done

    ~MM – Thank you Disturbed Stranger 🙂 !

  2. That is amazing, so full of ideas and images all working together. It’s like rich tumbling wonderful inspiration.

    ~MM – I felt it too, Paul, Thank you…

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