Oh let’s have a picnic
a picnic by the sea
no one there but angels
as the waves wash over me
Been observing all kinds of things lately. Had a birthday, end of summer, looking back again. Even with as much as I’ve done and all that I’ve experienced in all those years, it seems so short. Like everything that happened is a dream. Here I sit at the at the same pine-panel-on-Ikea-sawhorses desk I set up 30 years ago 2,000 miles away. Moths are batting at the window in the night. The native grasses I won’t trim are waving in the wind.
My wife keeps telling me to lighten up. That would be my mother’s disease. The dusty artifacts and unpulled triggers come from him. It seems like one should be alarmed, you know, yet everyone is perfect. Underneath it all we’re gods or part of one. That’s good because I can’t believe how old the bad boy is. Her hands are smooth and hot under the sheets. Hold me, she says in the morning. It has to be all right, right now.
John Hamilton Farr lives at 7,000 feet in Ranchos de Taos, New Mexico, U.S.A. As New York Times best-selling author James C. Moore tells it, John is “a man attuned to the world who sees it differently than you and I and writes about it with a language and a vision of life that is impossible to ignore.” This JHFARR.COM site is the master writing archive. To email John, please see CONTACT INFO on .png)
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