The Meeting

Poetry, Pulpit

Wrote this about three/four years ago. Think it’s out on another blog somewhere, but wasn’t yet here.

They dribble into the room and float around like swirling twigs in a wavy pond, wetting their leaves. A commotion of expectation arises from the chaos of existence: a circle forms, as circles do. People swirling together to form a sphere.

Distant twiglets dripping quietly in corners or wandering back and forth with excitement seeking direction.
People talking in hushed tones and loud moans.
The group gathers. Mumbling, fumbling.
People reclining technology wining, the excitement and anticipation drones on like a frozen error warning. That sound of a single xylophone tap. A memory of Fridays past.
The voice is assertive.
People relieved by the order but distrustful, gabble on in guilty sobs. Mumbling, fumbling.
The voice gathers like a sunny storm of happy promises and hopeful laughs and sympathies.
Slowly the people calm. Then twiglets swirling round, mumbling fumbling. Flies investigating a living corpse and find that it survives. Twigs and twiglets revolving, resolving, in quietly deafening anticipation.
A commune is being formed. A dam in the pond, pointless and beautiful, wondrously useless, yet model and fine. The twigs are curiously inspired.
Poets are gathering in a mirth of red and yellow sounds as the first recital begins. The heartfelt short stab. The mood is of a blue fire, burning naturally and comfortably in its long hue. Heartfelt. Silence. Contemplation. Acceptance.
The twigs revolve, mumbling, fumbling. The twigs revolve with snappy chatter and screeching laughter and petty distractions of flies. The guiding voice rides the waves of the pond.
The students are sat listening to the teacher. Another recital drifts into beginning. Silence slowly falls like snow. Thinking. And claps of wetted leaves and hands.
The students are aroused and engaging, thinking, speaking, talking, discussing. Enjoying. The voice is rising on the overarching tide and spreading and calling and telling. Stories and lives.
And lives and sex. The post-adolescent obsession with unbegun lives and the meeting of minds and hearts. The mood is red.

And the tide crashes and the dam slowly splits in pieces, now hovering round the home of the whole, wondering however there might have been a hole.

Splitting to revolve and evolve.


In a green silence.

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