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Breakfast

This is an airy planet
with space
under the stairs
(… and stars in space...)

I can sense it
when I tread back upstairs
barefoot
in the morning,
balancing my breakfast
for the habitual intake of nutrients
in bed,
back up against the pillows,
stacked against the wall,
perhaps with the morning news
on the radio,
old fashioned style,
a bit anachronistic I suppose

Thus I feel the space, under the stairs
that support my light treading,
under the stars
that (used to) give the seafarers their heading;
yes, there's space even in between my toes,
and around my thought, wherever it goes
in this suddenly soaring awareness
of the soaring salient roominess
that always gives free scope
for any kind of desperate succinct hope
& electricity;
somewhere for time to play
and myself to tread barefoot,
albeit disciplined
by the mysterious force
that bends light around stars
and draws magnificent worlds
into the anonymity of black holes,
though scientists now claim
that gravity ain't no force at all,
but rather a space-time situation

Life & the commonness of living
move like a medieval ballad
under my skin,
and to myself I mutter
the Ballad of Barbara Allen
- which I can't really pronounce in any way without weeping -
(”...Sweet William came from the West Country,
and he courted Barbara Allen...”)
as I sort of levitate
up the white semi-circle of the stairs
and the vertigo of the stars,
like the rose & the briar
that grew out of Barbara's & Sweet William's graves,
to become united at the top, in a lovers' knot,
while I'm balancing a bowl of oats, sunflower seeds,
pumpkin seeds, sesame seeds, almonds,
raisins, dried apricots & lingonberry jam
in one hand,
and a cartoon of oat drink in the other
(since years replacing cow milk)
or stuck under my arm
to manoeuvre the world at large
with the free hand; freehand!

I've just had the day's premier conversation
with Gunwald the Cat,
and the next with myself, trying not to be too akward
and hard on myself

Anna had driven off the forty miles to her physiotherapist work
hours before I woke up
out of my dreams, and saw where I was
(moving back and forth,
every few months between farm and retreat
confuses an old man as to his whereabouts...),
but the dream I rose out of stayed on
in unusal clarity,
spent at the police station with some fellow investigators
that I'd left several years ago, retiring,
of whom I especially recall Göte Mattsson;
a Clark Gable-style crime investigator
who had retired decades before myself,
and whose hand I shook in our old corridor

The lightness with which I sprung up the stairs
to the position I now hold
with a wonderfully dancing Vega pen from Pilot,
opened a special planet
with ample room
for thought and surroundings
and the pure, tactile wonder of bare feet
up white wooden staircases
in a new cosmic morning,
as a pure metal Indonesian gamelan
in back of my mind, for some reason,
started to rhythmize my encounter with the world
as I lay down the pen (for now)
and let my life rest its wayward nature
on the surface tension of a sip of black coffee




Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 49 gånger
Publicerad 2023-10-26 12:23



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  Tomas Sofia Johansson-Jonsson
gravity exists. look up quarks.
2023-10-26
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