This one was written for a poetry challenge at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/search/label/Kerry%27s%20Challenge . The challenge was to write something with Borges’ story ‘The Garden of Forking Paths’ in mind.
(i’m having trouble getting the formatting to do … well, anything at all. any tips?)
Time is a spirographic water carving.
Gimballing in the wabe.
We walk through it unmindful,
as through a cloud of gnats,
each following the erratic path of its own gnat heart,
ignorant of its place and placement in this world of bugs and men.
We wave our hands through the mass,
causing unthinkable disturbance in the matrix of the
We and ourselves,
crossing paths once and again and again.
Here you are at the ridgeline between death and life,
looking out across the unknown,
shoulder to shoulder with fools and philosophers alike.
Contemplating the question of what is next.
Or whether next is even anything at all.
Here again, waist deep in battlefield debris –
Heart of lion, feet of steel, blade flashing and clashing
shield glinting in the red sun,
enemies and evil falling before you,
dissolving into vapor and smoke.
And here, wretched and alone,
caged by disease;
by a law that was wrong to no one but you;
or perhaps by your own slithering weakness of spirit.
Here you are a devoted parent,
and there you are a gun for hire.
Off in the distance you are both at once, and you also
bowl in a league.
Somewhere, I am a lizard, still and unmoving under the
white desert sky,
and somewhere I fly airplanes and
study the litero-physics of origametry.
Somewhere you and I have never met;
and somewhere I am a hollow-boned refugee
(maybe more than one somewhere)
Whoever you are
you are all at once.
Feed one and you feed all.
Starve one and all go hungry.
It is always the unspoken things
which are the dark void center
we wrap our every self around.
Original content Copyright © 2011 Shawnacy Marie Kiker. All Rights Reserved