117. The poem without an ending.(19/03/2016).

In a break with the recent couple of pieces, something unconnected to bedrooms. Something purely whimsical but all the same sincere. Don’t be put off by the title, it really is quite short .

117. The poem without an ending.(19/03/2016).

 

In our city with the castle,

That could’ve given Walt Disney,

Alternately,

Nightmares and wet dreams,

There came to be a poem,

With a beginning,

But no idea where it’s ending might be,

It wondered down granite streets,

Of mind and memory,

And up closes of,

Imagination and whimsy,

Then sat for a while,

In a café filled,

With all the smells,

Of the long ago,

While music was heard,

That had long since faded,

But the poems ending was still nowhere,

To be heard, or smelled or seen,

Thus it resolved to wait patiently,

And hope for good fortune,

In the daylight,

Once we were up and about,

And fully wakened again.

 

© Jim Laing 2016.

 

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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