It's All Gone

First they came for the left over turkey, and I did not speak out-- Because I was sick of left over turkey.

Then they came for the mashed potatoes, and I did not speak out-- Because I had cooked too much mashed potatoes.

Then they came for the stuffing, and I did not speak out-- Because it was just crumbs of bread.

Then they came for pie--and there was none left for me.

Sometimes, I Imagine

Sometimes I imagine that I am an acclaimed author, my picture on the back of my latest novel, with black turtle necked sweater and tweed jacket, pipe dangling from mouth, with dark circles under my eyes. underneath which is a witty blurb about my life, and other acclaimed works.

Sometimes I imagine that I am a Shaman, living at the edge of the village in a small neat hut, and the villagers come to me with their esoteric needs, which I fulfull by throwing bones and chanting obscure chants that resonate with the universal sound.

Sometimes I imagine that I am a poet, standing on the stage in some darkened grotto, speaking my truth while a sax blows out cool clear notes in the background, and hipsters drink their espresso, chain smoking hand rolled cigarettes, hanging on my every word.

Sometimes I imagine that I am a child, wandering about in a morning field still wet with dew, finding wonder in micro-worlds of moss and insects and slugs, and the occasional flower that is so tiny to the adults vision, yet so large in my own.

Sometimes I imagine that I am a cat burglar, with still youthful sinewy strong limbs, scaling the palaces of the overly rich, cracking their hidden safes for jewels to distribute to the poor.

Sometimes I imagine that I am Kwai Chang Caine , walking the earth, going from town to town, helping those in need, and living my truth in strength and grace.

I have imagined that I was so many things throughout my life.

The truth is that I am all of that, and more.

So are you.

Sometimes, I imagine.

Won't you?

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Writ for Carry On Tuesday