Island Life

I’ve been saving my savings for a journey to the islands
where blue is blue through and through
where my people came from before there was history
before the automatic and amplified hulabaloo.
I’m going to sail so far distance won’t mean a thing
where the only music is the whales singing,

Come followers and leaders
come current and carried
come out of the nowhere
joing tribal and contrary.

My father served in islands south of the ocean
he came of age where canoe and star are one
he learned to talk there and wrote a grammar
of the language once spoken by coconut and sun.
Spoken there now is jibberish and silence,
the dialects of affluence and abandon.

How is a flower developed
who milks the beach dry?
To tool and machine the air
is commerce in the cemetary.

After a long apprenticeship in island-hopping
I have taken over my father’s old empty hut
I live on bananas and whatever the spear and net bring
this corner of the world is open, nothing shut
so we can pass through the straw mat of quiet
and pass back again to day patent in its purport.

The creatures blowing and breathing
pass too with and opposite
us between light and heavy
between dark and illuminated.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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