simonhlilly

what is this thing? To whom do we speak as we insistently write our thoughts, narrate our day, fume and bluster, dream and debate?

Like praying: hoping someone listens, someone cares, someone approves, someone answers.
Recording a life that might otherwise go unnoticed,
Lost in the night,
bleached colourless, irrelevant, ordinary, by time.

What if:
The static on our TV screens
We are told is the remnants of the Big Bang,
The moment of birth of time and space,
The echo of the beginning…

What if
This noise tide
Sweeping between the stars
Is just the electronic surf
From a previous creation’s
FaceBook?

Travelling endlessly on,
The omkara
not of God’s word,
But of little lives,
Like our lives,
Muttering, praying
Hoping, laughing:
“End of the Universe?
I don’t think so LOL!”…

Calling out
Like sheep
In the darkness,
Herded to an unfamiliar field:
” where are you?
” I’m here!
“who are you?
” me?
“yes you!
” don’t know, who are you?
Hi, it’s me!
“great, who are you?
“dunno! Nice grass though!
“what?
Nice grass!
Mmmm, good grass!
Where are you?
I’ m over here!”……

———

Gently Radiant : a Wash of Electrons.

I call and call,
Somehow call.

You hear,
Somehow
And silently reply.

We are virtually human,
Virtually present.

Half the world is sleeping.
The other half
Is dreaming.

Wonderful silence.

Light from distant stars
Drifts and dusts
Pool-dark eyes.

Without tongues, even,
We begin to sing.

———-