A Swag, No Roads and Alive

Mountains

A Swag, No Roads and Alive

Caught between dark corners and a great open,
Where mountain air breathes her soul.
When she rolls out of her swag each morning,
Waiting for the sun to drench night’s

Chilled earth beneath her bare feet,
Remembering warmth in a smile,
ventures out into so many places,
Those places of living hearts,

And breathing dreams.
Where no well can draw her focus,
In those directions as a point vanishes,
Somewhere between distance and time spent at depth,

Forgetting a well rambles between water, bedrock, and sand,
Though sometimes, tall grass will hide,
One in those endless dry seasons,
It’s all best to think to shorten it first.

Until after reading, and reading again,
A changing land for one reason or another,
These words “No more. No more! No more…”
Escape, but don’t hinder to mind,”

Not sure why, but her heart,
Is sad for the world, and the worlds of people,
Cultures and languages right now,
Though what if those three promises rang out

Promises her eyes saw in a carefully folded pocket note,
What if they rang out everywhere,
Perhaps being alive, it would all be different.
For how many enter, how many leave in a day, a season,

And who will share a story? For small nooks get to listen,
In on all, such as those transits to being alive, listening, participating.
Reminded her of a quick drop, an instant tour down a thirty foot well,
How many decades ago. Amongst tall grasses and her ghosts,

Still echo this far on in time, never pausing to converse on something else,
While her days in the tropics, when a poem by another writer,
Draws a deeper colour from the sky, to paint a picture of places,
Places a mind forgets to share, but for in the moment,

It is found while listening, watching in such places, to remember once more;
For she liked it way up there above it all:
In night, where time’s words light,
Shine a little brighter each time, where?

Out to explore amongst these wooded words,
Carved like long forgotten veins of ash in charcoal trunks,
Tall and broken, from when storms tilted their lightening,
On what seemed such calm days along foreshores,

Between a distant forest and a storm curdled sea,
Such places where winds rattle falling leaves,
To whisper their tales of unchosen anonymity,
Upon reaching a surface seen before by many others,

Tethered in gravity’s denial of flight, time pauses, and
Her, unlike these falling leaves can still breathe,
Taste the salt air, walk, and dance in tales to choice, and
Finding different places, people, and falling leaves that can fly,

For her, between birth and death, everything’s alive,
Never lost, peoples, cultures, languages,
resilience to and in change in circumstance,
Her ways adapt, share, lift within society,

Her’s is a way of life, a swag, no roads, and alive.

14 responses to “A Swag, No Roads and Alive

  1. Beautiful poem … I can almost hear the stream of the river of time running smoothly through your verses… The third stanza stands out and so does the last one. Carpe Diem, Sean… (As Time goes by)… ⭐
    Best wishes, Aquileana 😀

    • I’m kind of a little hung up over wells, something I never expected, but two posts by other writers reminded me of their worth and their dangers at the same time. Not sure if you mean the last stanza, or last line. The last stanza, contains a few remaining fragments to a piece of some writing now gone. The last line and title, they’re as fresh as the day of the post. Thanks, Aquileana 🙂

    • The lines built up over a week, maybe a couple of weeks in sequence, visiting different writers’ posts and lingered as thoughts written down in response and in mind. It was when I lost some other writing due to a technology crash, that I visited these desperate, seemingly unrelated lines of words from different times and spaces. It worked out well, thanks for noticing how it happened, Charles. It took me two weeks to notice where my head was sheltering.

  2. There’s something intriguing and terrifying about wells – dark places deep within the earth. Places to fall down into and get trapped. The effort that it takes to crawl your way towards that little circle of light at the top. Powerful words, Sean.

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