Tag: Meditations

Driftwood

On By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

The shine kissed the hills.

Warm grasses swayed beneath the pulling of the wind.

Cross legged and decidedly unclenched….uncloistered….

 I gazed at gulls in their fleeting circles….

Should I tread down, once more, to the shoreline?

Should I kick the salty texture of the sea?

Which odd assortment of neural fire must I stoke?

Locomotion was such a drag.

A ritual for sluggards.

So, I sat, like the coastal grasses, heeding only the wind.

Would I become like the bleached driftwood?

Light but substantive…. yielding but substantial….

Was it even a worthy goal?

What is ‘worth’ anyway?

Besides a synapse thwarted…

The remaining sunlight had many hours.

I would keep them.

Stillness, what a joke…

Everything rebels against that clown.

To sit…eschewing motion…

The heart itself knows there is no escape…

And so it moves…so it rhymes…

So it keeps the tension.

So it produces time.

My lips want beer.

My skin wants touch…

Corpus cannot drift cannot wooden be…

Just effulgent suds…

Ethereal…

Uncatchable…

Without a bottle…

Glistening polychromatic in the shine

Kissing the hills

Swaying the grasses

Warmth

Legs grip to behold guls circumscribing

Exulting in direction

Choosing none


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Harmony Speaks

On By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

It’s so calm in the mountains.

The rain hitting the tin roof.

It’s absolute bliss.

I could lay forever in this cot.

It’s so rare to achieve perfect stillness.

I’ve achieved it.

For now.

I’ll only lay here for the duration of the rain.

Stillness in respite.

That sort of thing is fine.

An even finer thing is motion.

Or the smoothing of mental turbulence through footfalls.

Footfalls as regular as drops of rain.

I’d soon fall into rhythm.

There were just a few things to secure in the ruck.

Just a few more indeterminate eternities to cascade onto tin.

Just a few more to bathe my soul.

The smell of damp earth, dead leaves, and pine drifted in among the timber aroma of the cabin.

A perfect touch of cool refreshing air through a slightly cracked window.

An invitation beckoning my strides.

Yet the rain, so right, so rhythmic kept them resting till the appointed stave.

Unbidden through the stillness harmony speaks.

Rings – The Meditations of a Mortal

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, poems, Stories, The Fractal Journal, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Hand holding a cigarette with smoke rings, a stylized monochrome vector image.

You.
You there.
Yes, you with the hair so like the leaves that autumn brings.
Do you know why fall is my favorite season?
It is not just the hint of chill in the air.
It is because rings are made.
Yes.
I love fall because I love decay.
Because I love the evidence of life that has been lived.
The gentle descent of death into rivers as cool, and deep, and gray, as those eyes you’ve fixed upon me.
You shudder and wonder what’s so great about rot.
Well look at the tree’s hair that’s just landed on that delicate shoulder, so near your own leafy crown.
How I love the slight bend in your neck.
How tenderly the angle travels to the collarbone.
You know I see you as a skeleton,
Shhhhhhh… relax a bit,
you’ve drowned your cigarette in gin,
I’ve no desire to harm you.
Here take mine,
a famililar act should steel the nerves.
You know that such lovely lips should not be chimnneys.
But while we’re on the subject of smoking,
why is it that we love it so,
the wrapping of these dead dry leaves and their cremation?
We inhale decay.
And in rings the evidence of life’s passage curls round us.

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