Sounds of life

The sounds of life 

Everyone knows the sound of your heart beat, childlike thoughts at least.  No I’m speaking of the other sounds, the ones from deep within the corpus we call our bodies.  Guttural, nasty slurping disgusting sounds that manifest deep within each and every one of our bodies.  Gurgling, swooshing, gases passing noises, some loud, some so quiet only fest for one’s own ears.  Do you fret these sounds, these voices from within?  Even though your friends might condemn, make jesters of aghast, you’re not alone.  They also in the solemn sanctity of their homes, Offices do make these gestures of phantom beasts wild in the rut.  Your quest is too quiet these deniers of sounds gone mistakenly amiss.  Dismiss your auricular song; rejoice in the knowledge that all possess this charming gift from within.  Embrace your song as uniquely your own, be it your laugh, snort, or odoriferous thunderous flatulence, you’re not to be shamed anymore!  Free yourself; shout out the songs of life!

 

From the Ramblings

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Revolution

Ahhh Revolution.

The revolution is over, we’ve won.  Guns, bombs no longer shake the ground with their roar.  The explosions are silenced, but the screams of agonizing death still ring.  The skies are grey orange filled with the stench of the burning cities, forests, bodies.

They came at us in hoards.  Planes, tanks, all sorts of business.  We wear the same uniforms short the red arm band we wear with pride.  We fought for days, weeks on end.  No rest except the rest of the dead. 

Their numbers became few and then there were none.  We killed every one of them, killed them in the thousands.  We ask for no quarter and we gave none.  

I take rest from my Command.  Walk around the block, need to clear my head.  Fifteen, fifteen the number of street lights around the command block I counted, counted very carefully.  Each has a body hanging.  Rose as a warning to others to know who is in charge.  These are our people, comrades I fought side by side.  What is their crime?  The fear is palpable, even as a Commander I fear that I will end up as my brothers swinging from a pole on display for all to see. 

People will someday call this a civil war, ethnic cleansing, a great holocaust.   I don’t care what it’s called, don’t care if I’m known as a butcher, slayer of innocents, I just want to survive, live in peace.  Will this never end?

I feel my life here is short, measured in hours, maybe days, no longer.  Time to get back to work, god help us.

From the Ramblings

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Old Oak

Old Oak

There’s an old oak tree not far from my house.  When I say old, I mean it could be thousands of years old.  How long does an oak tree live?  Gnarled stump, twisted heavy limbs, tall, as tall as a building.  Nothing grows under its wings.   They branch out far like an umbrella, blocking the sun, killing all that would try to root below its massive reach.  If one sits a spell under its canopy, dream, day dream of things it’s seen, heard, felt, time has no meaning when you’re an oak.  There is a slight cup in one side facing the west where the storms come from.  It seems to fit my back as a good chair fits, snug but comfortable.  I find myself staying just a little longer, listening to the talk of the tree.  Gentle breezes move its leaves, making a purring sound that is pleasing to ones ears.  I day dream of those that have come and those that are long gone from this world.  All come, all go, the oak cares not.   I sense the oak has helped the passage of a few in years gone by when throwing a rope over one of its heavy limbs and then around the neck of an outlaw was considered laws carried out with justice.  It’s time for me to get back to the busy life I live, but I’ll be back soon, I wish for more stories of this old oak.

From the Ramblings

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Hot & Spicy

Hot & Spicy 

Be it known that I am but a humble servant of god passing thru your fine fertile lands.  My honored benefactor has blessed me with a roof over my head and hospitality unmatched in my lands.  I am truly blessed. May you be blessed and honored upon meeting your Gods. 

 

However, I pray the gods not to repeat what was described me as spicy orange chicken and hot rice for the days blessed meal.  Cubed chicken baked then seared in what could only be described by this humble servant of god as straight from the bowels of hades, belching fire and lava from the very bowels of the earth, burning the very core of one’s soul.   One bite.  I ran, fled screaming from the grand room as if the very devil was grasping the tails of my simple robes, smoke billowing from my under garments, screaming,  screams damning Lucifer’s  name, but begging for the lords repentance from my torment.  With my mouth agape, saliva gushing from my burnt being, I plunged my head deep into a watering pail meant for the animals of the lot.  Boiling waters caressed my temples.  Blessed be the cold waters……….. 

I must be continuing my travels forthwith, without delay; down the dusty road is my lot.  I fear the mornings call to duty, forgive me my lord my sins of this earth.  Prayers are made oh lord my savior blessed lord of all men, beg protection from the forenights blistering indulgences.

 From the Ramblings

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