“On Being an Almanacker”

Phil Evans

What is it that catches my eye, or rather,

that triggers the wondering of mind, the

wandering of thought.

 

That sound so new it leaves a trace

through background noise, or that path

through wilderness that makes me

question what went before, whose only

evidence of existence is the persistence of

the spoor they leave behind.

 

Or the sign though subtle, that still

appears faintly out of place and catches my attention, distracts me from my

intention to pass through unhindered by

sideways glances at other, and my mind

stumbles over the multitude of patterns

that will become my lover.

 

Adherence to purpose is rare- my mind

wonders and wanders and my feet follow.

Intention and direction is lost as I open my

heart, bare my soul, as I explore my world,

spiraling in until my attention is:

 

-contained within a puddle of water, held

captive by fractal boundaries, that

intimate, chaotic dance of complexity and

simplicity, echoes of limitless shorelines,

objects sorted by wind and rain, laws of

physics that twist and distort without

thought of the feast for my imagination

laid before me like a banquet, surrounding

me like a blanket of wonder, around me

and through me with every breath I take.

 

-or carried beneath the Earth by the

endeavor of an ant, her ceaseless energy

passed from generation to generation

leaving as her legacy soils of another sort,

covering with gentle persistence the

treasures of an earlier time.

 

-or bound to the transitory patterns left

in the sand by the branches of the

beach wattle beating time to last

night’s windstorm that brought no rain,

but the roil of the universe makes ephemera

of us all.

 

I seek the wonders that lie hidden

in plain view, not there for me, not

waiting for you but in their own place,

and at their own time.

 

Lake Tyers has already written her

Almanac, millennia future and past.

We cast our nets in her waters, on her

lands, through her forests and we

catch fleeting glimpses that trickle

through our fingers as we search for

meaning, as we seek to give voice to

that which speaks to us without words,

(stirs within us), as we strive to give

substance to silvered flashes of

inspiration, and so we construct our

artifacts as best we can,

ornamentation that tells the story of us,

here, now.

 

There will never be another me, or

you. No-one else will ever see this

world the way that each of you do.

 

No one else can see through our eyes

but that is where the beauty of

discovery lies as others see not what

we saw, but what we were inspired to

create and perhaps those eyes are

then encouraged to join us and open

wide, to see around corners, and

through obstacles, to slide beneath,

between, beside, inside, to feel their

own connection to place and time.

 

To absorb and digest the mundane

and create sublime interpretations that

inspire and retrain everyone’s senses

to see and hear and smell and feel that

which has always been here, but

hidden from us by the buildup of

everyday dust and grime on

our windows to the world. Wash that away

and expose the perception and

distortion through which each of us

experience our world because it is

precisely that perception and that

distortion that is our uniqueness.

 

None of us can have prior knowledge

of our creative, constructive,

community trigger but, you know, I

figure we keep plucking at strings and

blowing on horns and banging on

drums, and from the cacophony,

rhythms and melodies and harmonies

will emerge; a discordant, chaotic,

ecstatic, wonderful human symphony.

July 13, 2019
Poems