Song of Myself

June 9, 2011
By MichaelMcLane BRONZE, Newcastle, Washington
MichaelMcLane BRONZE, Newcastle, Washington
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Life, and all that I know of it, has no rhythm
I am not walking the road of life
I am swimming, running, falling, tripping,
I don't make any stops, undaunted by the swirling masses
Splashing about, the hungry undertow biting at my feet
and though I am trapped in the present,
the ribbon is not tied so tightly, the way ahead is not thickly shrouded
And the waters will be calmer

The flurries have been rushing down all night, behind our backs and beyond our windows
I drown in a snow drift, a blinding sea that clung to my eyelashes and bones, to my memory
out of reach of the marygo'round,
But soon after it seems there are freckles blossoming on my shoulders,
sun-burnt skin and bicycles yet to shed their training wheels
An armadillo carcass rots in the gutter as I pass, filling my eyes and nostrils,
and we sing to the moon under the old oak tree

I have no premonition of ever leaving myself behind
But I am not myself
I am your mother, your daughter, your niece, your aunt, your sister
My future may not be dripping with the promise of riches
but the tapping of experience can be heard on my rooftop
I feel my shoulders move, my knees bend, my fingertips
as they brush against the earth
I make a tribute to this life, there is hope within me,
that you have it within yourself. I pray
though not to any God or person
These prayers will reach someone's ears and hearts
even if they have to make the long journey back to my own ears

I am the starving child, the sounds of my empty stomach are not enough
to drown out the cries of my suffering country
I am the starving child, my tears that fall are not enough
to replenish the dried up land of my suffering country

I am the gray wolf, again I cry at the great moon,
again I stretch my legs long and run through the land,
again I hear the thundering of metal wings pierce through the wind,
again I flee, heart pounding in my chest, confusion, exhaustion,
I collapse
and again, the hunter aims, and takes his shot

Misconceptions and illusions fill the air like toxic fumes
There is time for debates, for meetings, for arguments,
for bombings, killings, assassinations, genocide, sacrifice, martyrdom, suicide,
But when will the time come for compassion?
Do we have time for humanity?
Do we have time for charity?
We do not reside on six billion separate Earths,
we share one

My ears speak more loudly than my tongue, they wait patiently for me to draw my breath,
and speak softly to the words whistling through the air.
Though I do not think of breathing, I think of breath
though I do not think of living, I think of life
And even if my body is confined to flesh and bone, my thoughts
are not confined to my my skull
I pay homage to this life, grasping at every slender strand of perception slipping by
reveling in the masterful intertwining of each and every being

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