PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It was a quarter to 3 PM when Galvin was aroused from his dreamworld via the slobbery licks of the petite poodle. Samantha was standing next the bed with her hands clasped together, her fingers interwoven, left to dangle at waist length, smiling contrived and staring rather wide-eyed. A psychopath, thought Galvin. Who the hell else would wanna wear such a hat— And to look like that? Get this mutt off me.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she suddenly said. “Always have. That is part of the reason you’re with us. And I’m not that mad. Only a little. But aren’t we all, dear?— Wanda, control yourself, get down! Come here, girl, come here!” she gasped and clapped.

Galvin was utterly dumbfounded regarding this whole scene. One minute he was dreaming, and now he fancied himself dreaming still, stuck in a state of paralysis. Wanda stopped licking and hopped off the bed. Galvin thought reality was like a corrupted diamond, physically graspable, to hold back the tsunami of bewilderment, and evermore spiritually ungraspable. He is attracted to the cosmos to pierce thru those metaphorical veils, divine portals in the outer reaches of the universe. He can’t help but to spiral in a sea of starlit energy. 

“And that is exactly why we wanted you,” she said. “You have a certain soul that is perfectly fit for our purposes. Now if you just follow me to Zen’s office, he will inform you more.”

He put on his boots and hat. Miss Beans watched him. The poodle watched him too. He wished he should have a bit of space to pontificate and to sift thru his usual life memories, reflections. Everything has been forgotten, and I must appease Miss Beans for I am but a servant of odd riddles.

Could it be that things tend to manifest before our very eyes, like roots of the mind shoot into sky beams, a projection of the single soul and mirror? There is a miming rhyme to reality.

Galvin saved this flow of knowledge to stay in his brain. He has a photographic memory, and with his imagination he scripts every word on an old scroll in calligraphy with a vulture quill. Then he puts it away until he wants to go back to those thoughts for his pocketbook meditation. He finds the writing process to be enjoyable, though of course he doesn’t have a scroll nor a quill to use in the physical realm. Hey, but notepads ain’t so bad!

“Here, take my hand. We go to see what is desired,” Samantha said.

Galvin hesitated, then responded, “Why are you who you are?— I’m sorry, but if I may be so bold, you hardly seem to fit in here. You are too different. I don’t feel that holding your hand is appropriate.”

“Oh hush, it was only an option. You can do whatever you want, honeysuckle. There is no limitation, no end level, if acceptance is practiced properly. Have faith in your placement. You have the privilege of roaming galaxies. Be happy!”