I'm back to save the air
This sounds dizzy
I am going to try to make a song
I am going to send my song through the air
If I could just be interested in what I am saying
I'd like to come back to this thought soon
I'd like to save the trees too
I'd like to save your face
I want my memories to count
Number 81 comes before 24
81 is a walk in the forest
In memory 24 all our hopes hit a wall
I'm working on my tag with seagull eyes
My best work is solo
My best solo is on a very low register
No bird can follow
I'm flying through some old ruins
Don't call me crazy
I see more than you think
I'm plugged into a sad power
I'm so tired of death
I'm so tired of sad choices
There is an old man standing by a ditch
Waving his arms
When the water comes
He will follow it to the village
In memory 64 he is younger
The water comes out of the fountain
The water pools in the old men's eyes
They see more than you think
I think memory 40 is next
See how the village shares the same dream
Now I am with you flying
We're both very happy
Many happy thoughts are coming
From a long way off
Memory 24 is here
Let us try to make a song
A song of welcome to memory 40
................This is a poem about memory, but not just personal memory, but karmic memory. Sometimes we plug into a depth of feeling that comes to us from very far away or a deep down place where we are not the subject, but the story calls to us to take a break from our lives to witness something that might seem random, like the image of an old man standing over a ditch waving his arms, or we might be flying over some ruins. If you have done shamanic work or deep dream work, you know what I mean. Or if you are a writer of fiction or you meditate you might have experienced something like this that clues you into how our lives are floating on a sea of stories and memory. This poem numbers the memories to make it easier but there is no special order or sequence. How can there be, when the subject keeps changing, from water, the old man, to village, to a random face? I think this poem is an invitation to explore these depths of memory, to plug in to our dreaming, to learn to fly solo and together to gather these memories; we owe it to ourselves, we owe it to the village, to the trees, to our ancestors.
