When you (and all your friends) don't watch television, you have a tendency to spend your nights doing other things. So I end up in odd and eclectic places.
Tonight I went to a a house high up on Garden Street and sat around a table writing poems. You pick a subject out of a hat, and begin by writing a few line, and then pass it on to the next person.
The following was what was written, based upon these two subjects written on scraps of paper:
1) The Spartans traded rods of metal and used no real form of currency, and
2) The start of the agricultural culture.
And here's what came of it:
The abundance of wheat and grain,
The Fertile Crescent
Across the sea.
Willing to trade metal rods like the moon exchanges light with the sea,
Mohawk shadows marching towards villages with groves of olive trees fringing the corridor of traveled passageways.
Do the roots grow deep enough to rabble
the skeletons from their rooked graves?
What am I saying?
Roots depend entirely on what grows, above and seeps down...which I cannot begin to quantify.
Well, I can begin.
And time too soon. We're passing through cycles, like orbits. Is all that we're troubled by today are different than the experiencing of pirates and...who were the others? Other pirates?
Pirates traded spice, slave salve of the coconut palm.
There were ships, were floating farms
Spread from the soil to the foam
Bulging pillaged land floating at sea.
And the seeping grain is a hole in the plastic sack.
A fun night.