The Works of JB Mulligan
Faith in the Harmony of Chaos
In the garden of joy, to scream
as gnats and hornets sting and surround me.
Is there no respite from Paradise?
“Harder days are coming.” No shit.
Marching behind the prior harder days,
a life like someone else’s tree,
days gathered, grey and green,
dense, unkempt in the cold breeze.
And then a bird feeds, or a child smiles.
Something happens, brilliant beneath
the distant, disinterested sun.
Something small. And life is new again.
The topsy-turvy hurly-burly spin,
like a ball thrown into a cave -
each moment is a stillness,
hangs in the air like a kiss
when you first move slowly away -
then BLAM - there’s another damn wall.
And I know it makes sense:
there are slow calm honest words
behind the constant clatter and hammering.