Echoes in a Hollow Space

18200 days of work
2600 weeks of work
7 sentences of wages
10000 meaningless meetings
250 echo chambers;
1 million stories
99900 untold
5000 pageants of wonders
2 wander inside a mind
2 beat back the mundane
2 survive on fantasies;
100 deaths close to hand
1000 broken hearts
2 broken knees
2 hobble and limit;
3 million hopes
2 million fears
7000 cries in the wilderness
6000 answers
3000 of them echoes.
This is the balance sheet.
This is the sum of a life.

—PJ Thompson

3:21 AM on Mon, Jul 17, 2023:

I'm more familiar
with 3 am than 6
but I rose for years at
hellish 6 to join the daily
grind, forced into
unnatural rhythms
but now I'm free
I rise when my eyes open
I sleep when they close
I still have bad nights,
hellish mornings
but at least I'm free
of the clock's tyranny

2:54 AM on Sun, Jul 16, 2023:

shall I write of pain
or of the smoke
drifting through the open
window from the fire pit
across the way choking
like remorse before it fades
or shall I instead write
of the downy soft cat
who wants to cuddle
despite the heat
her purring a balm to all
the pain that aches me?

3:00 AM on Fri, Jul 14, 2023:

no pressure
you did this
to yourself
no one has any
expectations
except you
but that's the thing
isn't it?
we always martyr
ourselves
on our own
expectations

3:07 AM on Wed, Jul 12, 2023:

memories crowding around
like guests uninvited to a party
they have stayed too long
leaning against the walls
wondering if they dare to dance
but I'm too tired to indulge them
wishing but too polite to say
they should just grab a beer
and go home

 

If you want to read all I've done so far (they're not all good), you can go here.

The Problem With Moondust

The problem with moondust, said the scientist,
is that it’s so fine it flies everywhere, wafting
on the slightest breeze, a magic powder
seeking every crack and hidden place of reality—
a more persistent sand, prevailing enchantment,
glittering matte grey possibilities of wonder.

Perhaps she didn’t say all that, not precisely,
but I knew what she meant. The problem
with moondust is that it brings on dreams,
faerie winkles uncontrollable and glistening,
spells of madness, incantations of imagination,
filling eyes, coating hair and reaching hands
with hopes dare not named, covering day-to-day
in possibilities beyond day-to-day means,
yet just what the heart needs: moondust.

—PJ Thompson

Death knocked twice on the door today
and when I opened up, smiled
and said, “This is a courtesy call.
Your time will come but not today.
Today I’m here to remind you
that time is not your friend,
that what you must get done, do,
that busyness is often just a mask
for fear, that no matter how hard
you try not to hear, the bell tolls,
and if you love, let them know.
See you around.”

I shut the door in Death’s face,
turned the music loud,
and danced around the living room,
as if I had nothing better to do.

—PJ Thompson

Gone

Soft sighing of breezes in the tall grass,
soughing of the wind in the millet stalks,
cascade of wind chimes, the mourning of doves,
seed heads scattering in a shattering of wings.

The palm's fronds bend and raise and bend
performing a ritual to life—a tiny life,
creeping and sighing all around and
in the clustering of fronds at its crown.

Far across the field, the dog barks,
quieting the sighing and the creeping,
but not for long. Life is insistent: a chittering
of sparrows battling, a fierce squeaking of mice.

All this life, all this quiet noise,
gone, gone, forced on,
to other fields where wreckers have not reached,
and big diggers leave the earth unturned,
where only small burrowing things disturb the soil—
far, far away from here.

—PJ Thompson

The pacing fell apart near the end the first time I posted this, so here's another attempt.

Partner

Distracted by inconsequence I rarely realized
I had a faithful partner dancing by my side,
step by step, move for move, in perfect harmony,
I’d catch his shadow fleeting in the corner
of my eye; sometimes viewed en pointe, graceful
as any swan, other times such frenzied moves
to bring St. Vitus down, pale and wan with spite.
My partner smiles but rarely, unless his changing mood
becomes a thing macabre, yet swaying always on my left,
he is my boon companion, Angel of peculiar mien,
neither good nor evil, equal-treating all he meets.
He counts each living step, dancing counterpoint,
two-step, three-step, patient pacing on and on,
devoted to life’s rhythms—until the dance is done.

—PJ Thompson

If I could walk

There are many places I would walk
if I could walk:
country lanes disappearing over a hill
lush with green and sheepy sights;
sunken roads whose granite walls
loom tall on either side while eons of
travelers walk invisible by my side;
rugged stepping stones across a pond,
a rushing stream, a placid brook;
hiking trails of rocky scrambles
and forests telling dark tales of wonder;
silent, brooding ruins whispering stories
of wrongs done and rights done and
somnambulant martyrs sighing at night.

There are many places I would walk
if I could walk
but the hardest path to tread is acceptance.
If only I could soothe the angry child
who pushes me to try harder, not give up,
if only…if you’d just…then maybe…

There are trails, She says, waiting for you:
friths of mystery to be explored, calling;
remembered meadows, bursting in flower;
hills to be stood atop, contemplating
the wonder of the green land stretching
below, glittering in waning orange sunset;
of tall stones humming ancient songs that
set the earth spinning, taking me along;
of beaches in the cold and fog, strewn
with ghost glass and shining pebbles;
of sun and wind and rain and dew.

She accuses my reasoning, practical voice
of cowardice and forsaking, of accepting
a reality she will not acknowledge.
But the voice of reason toddles on—
a plodding litany of reasons why not,
urging what She does not wish to accept.
Between them I am frozen immobile,
dreaming of what used to be,
what might have been, and always
of all the places I would walk
if I could walk.

—PJ Thompson

Partner

Distracted by inconsequence I rarely realized
I had a faithful partner dancing by my side,
step by step, move for move, in perfect harmony,
I’d catch his shadow fleeting in the corner
of my eye; sometimes viewed en pointe, graceful
as any swan, other times such frenzied moves
to bring St. Vitus down, pale and wan with spite.
My partner smiles but rarely, unless the mood
becomes macabre, but swaying always on my left,
he is my boon companion, Angel of peculiar mien,
neither good nor evil. Equal-treating all he meets,
he counts each living step, dancing counterpoint,
two-step, three-step, patient pacing on and on,
devoted to life’s rhythms—until the dance is done.

—PJ Thompson

Who is this god beside me in the cool green
garden shadows, this moss maker, leaf breaker,
slow chipper of stones who pools the rain in the
niche places, causes the flowers to raise weary
heads to the sun; this gentle, quiet god of
tiny miracles and mundane wonders who
we take for granted as surely as we take
the breath in our lungs and at our lips?

Is it the same Power and Glory who causes
leaves to glisten in the sun and dance softly
on the air? Thundering and booming, the
poltergeists of the air know this god’s name
but do not reveal their secrets to the unworthy.
They merely light the way for the rain this god of
little things wears so well: earth sifter, root maker,
creeper through the new grass, safe and hidden.

—PJ Thompson