A little tent

I was born by a river

in a little tent

Words singing over time and space

somehow lodged in my heart,

though never intended for me.

It’s a melody that simmers inside me,

plucking at some new kind of wavelength

or maybe reverberating through what’s already there?

Stories of places I’ve visited, perhaps still rich somewhere in the stores of my memory, but reduced now with every telling.

A tired pattern I watch myself elucidate, again and again, time after time.

I was born by a river,

in a little tent.

If we take it metaphorically (as was the intention one can suppose), weren’t we all?

The flow of life rushing by: us huddled up under paper thin nylon, pretending as if our makeshift shelters can shield us from the reckoning.

I said I was booorn by that riverr

and it’s been running ever since..

Can we catch up?

Or is it a train we are destined to keep on missing?

Henry Miller says:

“To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.”

It’s been a loooong time coming

he said

but a change is gonna come

Oh yes it will.

I let the notes die in the quiet between refrains

I watch the water rush past

I let it all exist

And tell you so now

for reasons unknown,

reasons that rise like that river, like the song.