Aether Song

Our time is not in the grey falling rain nor in the boundless blue-green sea. Our time is in the river that lies between them, flowing smooth and quiet over the sand or angry and roiling over the unyielding stones. Joining and dividing. Choosing our own way for good or ill.

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Location: United States

Saturday, August 05, 2006

A muse's gift

Occasionally my whimsical muse will drop things off (sort of like UPS but without the brown shorts). One such package follows -


Where shall we look for this soul that you seek?
In the flesh that I wear or the words that I speak?
In the songs that I sing? In the dances I know?
In the tone and the timbre of my first ‘hello?
Just where do you find a soul in a man?
In his head? In his heart? In his feet? In his hands?
Does it lie in his kidneys or deep in his chest?
Does it shine when he’s conscious or come out during rest?
Will it spring from his eyes as he looks at the stars?
Or can you trace out its path along the lengths of his scars?
Can it be held up and displayed like an ethereal sheet?
Or will you perceive it in my face when we meet?


Blogger Songbird said...


10:19 AM  
Blogger St. Casserole said...

I'm amazed to come across well-written poetry on blogs. Poetry isn't easy and so much of it is bad that when I read something worth copying for my monthly "web bits" (my own files and with attribution, of course) I'm surprised.


Would the soul be in all those things?

3:23 PM  
Blogger Pure Luck said...

::courteous bow::

Why thank you St. C. I am glad you have found it worthy. This poem sprang from a conversation that I had with a co-worker down in Maryland this spring. He assured me I had a soul and I pressed him on exactly where and what it was, receiving alas no hard and fast definition. I didn't get much of a soft and slow definition either come to think of it.

4:06 PM  

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