The Pail

On a sunny morning
Out on the hill covered with purple flowers,
Stands a girl in a blue and white dress,
Closing her eyes as the sun warms her face.
The clouds pass by softly,
Making a shade that's not cold,
And the breeze feels nice
As it moves and folds her light brown hair.
She is there to enjoy
The moment of being alive and feeling free,
When light brings warmth
And the fact of the world is not cold.

Realizing this, she smiles
As she looks down the hill upon the farmhouse below.
She wonders if this day
Of warm happiness and feeling free
Is something she's been looking for
But because of boredom could never see.
Not that she couldn't have seen it, of course.
She just never did.

So she walks down the hill to the farmhouse
And finds a pail near the corner of the shed,
Taking it to the well to draw up some water.
Once it's full, she goes to find the dog,
Jacob, in case he's thirsty.
She finds him sitting
On the other side of the house,
Tongue out, watching the field butterflies.
When he sees the girl,
He wags his tail and gladly accepts
The pail of water she sets before him.
He drinks and the girl crouches beside him and watches,
Wondering again
At what she never realized before.

When the dog is done drinking,
The girl takes the pail, empties it on the ground,
And brings it back to the corner of the shed.
And then, unable to know what best to do
In response to her wonderful mood,
She goes inside and waits.

Toward Home

Floating out into the black
Into the darkness of the far outer beach
Where the kingdom come
The will be done
And we hear the melody—
A thousand little photons
Dancing around a greater fold
In the cloth that covered us
After we were born
Before we could see
Before we heard trumpets play a tune
That called us to stand up
To bow our heads.

And all of these little lights
That invade the privacy of our soul
With a memory of the cloth
When our mother first touched us
When we first experienced that—
Before we could read the clock on the wall.

Dancing to a song
Running to a rhythm
That is somehow found in this blanket
This white blanket that now
We feel and are comforted
To have in our grasp—
We are reminded of innocence again
And a place that makes less sense
Now that we understand more.

Research, Pt. 3: Suburbanism Can Wait

.

So apparently H.G. Wells spent his career writing about utopias.

For example, in The Time Machine he invented a future world in which everything was perfect. Every social or political problem had been resolved, and the beings of the world live in harmony. Or in War of the Worlds he considered a sort of dystopia, in which a world is thrown into utter chaos, in this case by a strong outside force that wishes to use imperialism to their own advantage.

He also sometimes presented anti-utopia, which looks at the world fragmented, questioning, revealing contradictions. Instead of examining a grand whole utopia or dystopia, he questioned the details of life as we know it, even the details of perfection or dis-perfection.

At least, that's what I got out of the three articles I looked at. And it got me thinking about my next book.

It's a story about cities and hearts, or something like that. Places where everything can be perfect, or dis-perfect, or if we want answers and solutions to our deepest questions, broken.

I do think perfection is good. It would be very good. And to change subjects a bit, why are there so few good guys anymore who are really good? I mean like really, really good. Like sure, they have their problems, but they never let that get in the way of doing the right thing. Maybe we need a good hero's journey. Maybe the hero of the story needs to go outside, face some bad guys who are really bad, and eventually save the day by his persistence. Maybe. We'll see what happens.

And until we meet again...(and during and afterwards)...keep on thinking free!

Tra-La-Laaaaaa!

Well...

On the bright side, everyone reading this is still alive. So that's good.










P.S. Anyone who knows what the title is referencing and sends me a message with the correct answer...I'll write a poem about you. (Guess we will find out if that's an incentive or a hindrance.)