rainy night at the farm

Sit back relaxing, asking myself no questions, basking in the peace, that’s more interesting than those grad school twins.  Writing at night like old times in the not-too-distant past.  Deciding not to fight while flying a kite that is electrified in the form of driving on the highway at night in a torrential downpour, wishing I was wrapped in an afghan on the couch at the farm with my book in my hand, and you in the other.  Oh brother, why art thou sooo sentimental?  You call out your druthers and say it’s incidental.  Here we are, way past the rental.  Coming into the umpteenth viewing,  Spewing out random acts while chewing the fat and the gum, even if we are feuding, and it’s confusing,  as to why and how and with what words we are using, I’m choosing to let it go and let it be, if and when the emphasis on we becomes what it was when we felt free.  Sitting back relaxing, thinking of the classroom chattering, with Uncle John’s Band playing, saying ‘good song’ and walking back.  This weekend, amidst the rain, pathways will be forged, mouth will be gorged, and I will attempt to churn beauty from pain.  I’ve learned to restrain myself when necessary, when I don’t believe it would do any good.  But I blame the message sender’s carry, and nary a one I say I’ve lost.  Thank you for reading, thank you for seeking the meaning from bleeding internally at the risk of repeating myself twice.  What in the world are you on boy?  He says as convinced as third grade bully.  So purely unsure you almost have to love them, but choose not to, because you too were bullied.  It willfully nestled and wrestled themselves a home in a bed.  These things become other things, and silver rings get lost near sandbar beachfronts in the Chesapeake.  Let us speak from the heart or not at all.  Let us not attempt to control in part or in all from the block to the gun to the finish.  Build up not diminish.  Sit and wish the softness of words can still harden an impact.  And, if the speech is slurred, I can arc my back and demonstrat.  Time to take a momentary break to Finnish people everywhere, what is the equivalent to buying you a pint of Guiness then?  I will happily buy you a pint of your choosing if you let me let loose on a dime in this new thing.  Boat cushions push into my temples and I lavish them.  Relaxing when, I drift off to sleep . . . . .       


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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1 Response to rainy night at the farm

  1. Ned Buskirk says:

    yes. write right write.

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