a small, black notebook
on a stand by the bed
filled with poems
that are not quite ready
like pieces of seaglass
with sharp, pointed edges
thrown back to the sea
to be tumbled till smooth
like hard, green tomatoes
saved from the frost
sitting on the window sills
to be warmed by the sun
maybe a rough cut diamond
waiting to be shaped
and highly polished
until it reflects the light perfectly
I don’t
believe in ghosts
but
sometimes they haunt me anyway
I
explain to them that they are just manifestations
of my
sub conscientious mind
but at
times they insist in trying to terrorize me.
So,
having no choice
I tell
them to fuck off.
Like I
said, I don’t believe in ghosts
and I am
trying to get them not to believe in me.
I
journey to the ocean several times each year
and look
out to my ancestral home
although
I can no longer go back there.
It’s
been years since my ancestors lived there…
over
three and a half billion years.
They
came out of the water and developed lungs and limbs
and
other complicated biological systems
which no
longer allow us to return to the sea.
On some
level I guess I miss swimming around in the primordial soup.
It was a
simpler time.
