Tree’s language

Did you know,
That poetry was the first writing.
Written down on bits of bark,
The lines were short
And of different lengths
According to the skin of tree
It was written on, see.
Charcoal on the sheddings
Of mysterious ancient beings
Whom seemingly stood still,
Yet tapped the earth’s resources,
Root listening for pulse and chime,
Learning the deepest secrets
That Gaia told.
So when writing the poem
The thought was with
The giver of both pen
And paper
And the human writer was no more
Than the medium to the tree’s
Prescribed directions
In this recorded speech
Of sound-sense finding meaning.

The window

Having “real” conversations. I’ve never really tasted that it seems. Actually I have. I was in a band. We’d talk anything, in rhyme without reason, in sound, about the strangest rudest things. Suddenly I was able to say everything I wanted and I was able to hear the amazing stories and responses of the other band members. No fear. It was a beautiful thing, I wanted it so much, wished for it, then it was happening. Alas though, it died, for reasons of external wrath that tears the hearts out of people and leaves them unable to do what they set about wanting. I miss it all so much, what we had together in the musical glue, that created something else that is no one but the group thinking together in a way that rang true.

Then there is stuff happening now I find difficult to go into... So let's just look at the parallels of fiction. They're not me, they're not you, they're not anybody, but I think in this automatic image I've skewed some popular character for reasons that eat my retorts.

Recent painting, over an old one (about a guitar that had a hole in the opposite place than it is supposed to be and a tiny key).
Opened up a window and found you one day. There alone were your beings and I remembered them . And from that point I set forth to love what it was that made you different from me.

What we sense, well even if it makes no sense to the rest of the world, we still have to make sense of it otherwise we're senseless.