Poetry in Motion
Cloudy - The sky is gray and white and cloudy - Sometimes I think it's hanging down on me - And it's a hitchhike a hundred miles - I'm a rag-a-muffin child - Pointed finger-painted smile - I left my shadow waiting down the road for me a while - Cloudy - My thoughts are scattered and they're cloudy - They have no borders, no boundaries - They echo and they swell - From Tolstoi to Tinker Bell - Down from Berkeley to Carmel - Got some pictures in my pocket and a lot of time to kill - Hey sunshine - I haven't seen you in a long time - Why don't you show your face and bend my mind? - These clouds stick to the sky - Like floating questions, why? - And they linger there to die - They don't know where they are going - and - my friend - neither do I - Cloudy(Paul Simon, 1966)
Lyrics are great, helps though if you know the tune, if not they're poetry. Poetry is great too.
Granny used to write poetry, it was a bit flowery, she'd throw in unfamiliar words that one ought to know. 'Nacreous shells of rainbow hues'. She used to paint flowers, really well. She now pretends to herself, and to others, including me, that she still does. She leaves her painting stuff on the table in the dining room. She moves it around from time to time but it's been there for a couple of years and she hasn't touched it for at least six months. It's a shame because she's still better at it than you or me. Still, it makes her happy that she thinks she does it.
She got up in the night because she's freaked out that the cat is able to get out of the catflap and she won't know where it is. I came downstairs this morning to find all sorts of bits and pieces in front it's exit: a pot full of kitchen knives, a tea towel, the cheese grater and a couple of dishcloths.
The cat had pushed them aside to get out. Unfortunately they had blocked the little door from opening the other way so her good intentions had locked the cat out for the night. She can't remember that there are a couple of little sliders to open and lock the door, a note stuck there gets removed because she reads it, remembers it (she thinks), and then throws it away.
The cat came back about ten, Granny was distraught in the meantime. Cloudy, my thoughts are scattered, and they're cloudy. So are hers.
and the poet said:
He who stands on tiptoe doesn't stand firm.He who rushes ahead doesn't go far.He who tries to shine dims his own light.He who defines himself can't know who he really is.He who has power over others can't empower himself.He who clings to his work will create nothing that endures.
If you want to accord with the Tao,just do your job,then let go.
