Waiting for Bus without a Schedule

I am waiting.

Imagine a bus stop on a street. When the street is busy there is much hustle and bustle, and scents and sounds are commonplace. Perhaps a lady in a turquoise dress strolls by. A man with a monkey. A child leading his mother around on a leash. "Chaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaiiiiiii!" calls the chaiwalla. Replies the evangelist, "...and he our LORD died for OUR sins..." in a sermon that has neither beginning nor end. This is a street it is easy to get lost in, unless one stays still.

When the street is quiet and the air heavy, it is a whole other place. Sadness coalesces like rain, condensation on the streetlamps that do not shine. A street where the loudest sound is the beating of a fearful heart, and the only smells are of mildew and rain. There is nothing to do on such a street but stay still. Wait.

In times of frenzy and times of stillness I sit in a glass cage, waiting for a bus to take me away.

It would make a pretty picture.

Intention all worded down.

Not of the world.

That is the goal. It is the desire. The function.

To be other and outside, in realms of spirit and dreams and in-betweens. The not-here and the not-now. Devoid of politic, embraced in smallness.

The red-rimmed eye sockets of ebon skulls and the patter of the mouses feet in the moment before the Owl, (Event of the) it all belongs and all is one.

Perhaps there is not sensing be made here. Perhaps it is so. So fine!

Yet there is no sense in going out of our way to achieve that end.

Here be poetry and song, here be anger and sadness, here be all the bits of the me that are Uncut and raw, or so is the hope.

Here is to hope, and to what-is. A toast.

Ogham Poem

My name is Jesse the Greybeard.
In my right hand I hold the amber key to the path of inspiration.
I whisper, "Who but I knows the secret of the uncut stone?"

My name is also Divine Child.
On my left arm is strapped a shield of aspen, air, and rust.
I speak, "We shall find rest."

My name again is Gift from God.
In my heart I hold the little death, sexual union, love.
I shout, "I am a hawk on a cliff!" and am heard.

My name again is Atticus, born of Latimer and Evans.
At my feet lies a willow scepter. I am a healer and a swan.
I think, "I am the shield of every head" and believe.

My name is Jesse.