Haiku With Too Many Syllables #128: Meeting of the Minds ~ T., red-head-karin, modartist, Saht & Ryan ~ 'Round The Brushwood
Table...
Twenty-fourth day of May, at the first
eleventh hour phase...
Dylan Bob's official day of birth, throughout...
Life means Movement. It is impossible to remain where we Are. Either: We evolve to a higher level of Consciousness, or, We regress. The Choice is Ours. We can't not choose, for even not choosing
is a subtle choice.
Many people seek Oblivion; a return to Unconsciousness. They seek it through [~place any and all forms of Diversion here~]. Only the few choose to begin the Journey toward Higher Consciousness. Perhaps this was one of the many reasons they met at The Table; that very day....
T. His silence at times, deafening. His eyes, so piercing, yet so simultaneously Innocent; like open gates. Listening so intently, as to moments appearing mollified. I could hear him listening. And when he did speak; not a syllable wasted; not a
phrase misunderstood...
Karin. She shared so much (yet so precious little) of only (as far as I could tell) one of Her countless lives. She smiled inside a nostalgia glow; not unlike a solar implosion. Eyes light-years off, sparkling for the telling of Remembrance, when she swung with the London Swing, and donned multi-colored, East Indian beads, and not so much for a jewlery...And like my imagination of a Belgian waffle, her spirit gave off streams of sugar-brown, candied aromas; while her gestures would have tuned just as symmetrically; just as fine, from beneath a Beneluxian syrup-blanket; like the Maples of Maine; or the amethyst flares, seen from
distant orbits rising...
The modartist. So excited. Too excited. Talking as fast as a needle in the red. Interrupting...interrupting himself! Anticipating the impossible. Being impossibly anticipated. Drowning under the spell of a now Beautiful Confusion...No matter where he sat, he was
welcomed at The Table...astounded...revived...
Saht. Ah, Saht. Came from out of The NoWhere. Took his chair as a feather swallows air; smiled long before his mouth or eyes received the signal. A contented windshower; seen through the slow-motioned dance the trees perform, at all hours of the year, untouched. The sway the trees play out in unison, so the purely invisible air can be witnessed moving along, like a family of falling stars, appearing to be slowed by the zodiac's trill, which charts the dawns, unannounced...unattatched...
And Ryan. Modest as the days are long. Unassuming as the willow-grass, stolen by the tides. His many treasures too easily described as "hidden," emitted a more-than-almost audible sheen. Handsome like a lyric Darkness, though moodily blonded, his dreams have engineered miracles his hands might have simply fumbled. Undaunted, he shuts doors, but never closes them. And through the keyholes, one senses mad laughter, tempered by a weathered tear or sigh...
To Life; to life! What Is; To Life...
That May of twenty-four; that Vagabond's birth day. And around a wooden table, the first anniversary of The First Meeting. Apparently a conference;
a seance, a decree....
Poetry Commemorating A Prophetic Rendezvous
Eric Scott Bloom
Twenty Four, May
2OO1
