I bet you didn’t know,
That marshmallows grow,
Big, white and round,
Right out of the ground.
Of quality top,
This organic crop,
So perfect this year,
Time for harvest is here.
Plain white is society’s
Most wanted variety,
But some specialist growers,
Produce some real showers.
Pink and yellow in heaps,
For marshmallow peeps.
If you look at what’s happening in Sweden…
Who would believe this?
Life is different now. Things are different.
This is what’s happening. In Sweden.
It’s called “Migration is for the Birds.” It’s a satirical tale of misrepresentation and the generation and circulation of false or misleading news stories. Through tweets. It was on a wall at an art gallery for a week. It’s about to be displayed at another art gallery.
Everything that is left out.
Like the Saddest Story Ever Written,
Often attributed to Ernest Hemingway.
“For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.”
An iceberg tip of six words.
Dive deep down and explore,
That submerged mountain of subtext.
Illuminate the ellipsis.
You probably don’t want to know,
What’s really under there.
It’s a quiet room within a place,
That used to be much quieter.
There are about fifteen of us here.
Refugees from the non-quiet part of the library,
With its dozens of overlapping conversations.
A library should not need a quiet study area;
It should be a quiet study area.
Like the libraries of my childhood,
Staffed by stern librarians,
Who would shush you,
If you spoke barely above a whisper.
But libraries are different now, I guess.
When you first walk in the door,
You are greeted by the smell of coffee,
From the cafe on the first floor.
When did they start putting cafes in libraries?
The old brick n mortars tried that gimmick.
It kept people coming in,
And staying in for longer.
It worked for a while,
Until it didn’t work.
But libraries aren’t book shops.
They are quiet areas, to study, to read.
At least they used to be.
That’s what was so appealing about them.
Allow them to visit and chat,
And text and talk,
And drink a coffee.
Then the essential libraryness is gone.
It’s not a library anymore.
I suppose death is the final answer,
To the basic math that is aging.
But one lesson we are all taught,
Is Show Your Work.
How did you get there?
What was the process?
For age is not merely a solitary number,
On an otherwise blank page.
It’s the accumulation of life.
A gathering of knowledge and experiences.
One cannot move on to the next lesson,
Until one fully understands the previous one.
But most of us do not learn,
And thus we are unprepared.
We haven’t learned this formula,
But we try to move on anyway.
New knowledge is acquired,
But old lessons are not learned.
Mistakes are carried forward,
Until we finally realize,
All the pain and frustration they cause,
Are actually the most important part of the lesson.
That the world was dark and very small,
Was the very first thing I can recall.
And the only sound that I could hear,
Was my mother’s heart, beating so near.
Then I fell down a waterfall,
And the world was not so very small.
It was the darkest, coldest day,
When summer seemed so far away.
So far away and yet so near.
Brighter each day for half a year.
Until the longest, brightest day,
When the light of summer fades away.
Around, around, the world it spins.
The winter starts and summer begins.
Around, around, we push this wheel,
Midwinter child at mother’s heel.
We make the streams and rivers run,
When winter’s gone and spring’s begun.
The Summer leaves then start to fall,
And cold and darkness covers all.
Around, around the world it spins,
As winter leaves and summer ends.
Around, around, we push this wheel.
Midsummer mother at daughter’s heel.
Pray on, everyone.
As they prey on everyone.
Ask God to make it all okay,
While they’re ripping their own flesh away.
Because God had told them what to do.
The very same God you’re praying to,
To ask for comfort and help from Him.
Should He listen to you or to them?