Grasslands

palouse

 

The green grass and the barbed wire fence,

pasture and livestock . . . another fence,

meadowlands and woods beyond.

Those woods could be second growth,

and the grass is chewed down every season.

My spirit roams as I sleep,

it is often not with those I slumber with,

it can be lost within the woods,

sometimes it is farther afield. It is not

faithful my spirit, is yours?

These days I slumber alone, but never

truly alone. There is always something

that I reach out to, or reaching in.

 

When I was young I hoped for passion.

When I loved, I dreamed of passion.

I do not remember anybody explaining

the difference between the two.

Someone may have hinted along the way,

but they never said the words.

I never said the words either,

it seemed rude, or perhaps

like all humans; I lied.

 

I remember hands reaching through the wire,

sometimes my own, some coming from the other side.

Grasping, trying to hold on as eyes stray

to the forest, or the critters of the flock.

I can still feel the barbs and see scars

where drops of blood once blossomed.

Passions left me longing for my home,

not feeling that I was home.

Pleasures of the flesh were rarely pleasures

of the spirits joined. No one gave the caveat

of jumping bones for jumping bones,

even when younger. Now that I am old

and withered, that is not a likely case.

My spirit still wanders as all spirits

wander. I know the world, the universe

of illusion and desire. I know

that desire can be just a glamour

of self delusion in others as well

as in me. The grass

is always greener on the other

side of age.

 

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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