My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

We will all be forgotten, of this there is no doubt, though we live as if a world without us could not exist.  We grossly over-exaggerate our importance, arrogantly and drastically overestimating our relevance to the orbit of all the planets and galaxies, and living beings surrounding us.

How many years will your memory remain
in the minds of men and women?

Put your self in perspective.  Reflect on how forgettable you are.

Stars and tears all disappear

Sean Hunt

I don’t mean to seem misogynistic but I know I need a woman to help me clean and organize my world. I’m not a newly liberated teen caught up in the whirl of sudden liberation from mum and dad; for many years now, this freedom I have had.

I’m afraid I must admit the house is now scary and I am afraid that if I die one day and someone comes to sort the mess of all these years they will not shed a tear.

They may say: “He seemed well-dressed, his elegance suggested something else, a life more organized and certainly less smelly”

Now it seems I have every thing I need, all the solvents, ‘Hoover’ technology and a steady flow of very hot water.  I live a life of leisure and I have loads of time which I devote to pleasure.

There’s no excuse for what one sees inside my house; the fault is me.

Now a lady’s lovely touch would also warm my heart which, I am well aware could beat a little harder; but the firmness of that gentle hand is what I really need, it seems, to guide my idle mind and better organize my dream


Sean Hunt   August 2016

A river flows from the farmer's field into two streams.

From one stream a sidestream very occasionally trickles into the mouths of men but most of this stream becomes a rapidly rushing river flowing to factories who process and put it into pretty packages.  This stream flows into global supermarkets to be displayed and sold to man.

Another stream flows into the barn and into the mouths of animals owned by man.  That stream stays there dammed-up, but only for a while.  When the stream has fattened man's animals the animals flow into a stream that flows into the mouths of men.  

Need we discuss subsequent streams?

...Or the rivers inside the body of man?