Tuesday, 7 May 2013

When the Hobgoblins Come

My hobgoblins were awakened 
by the vague throb of angst

and the listless, mad fairy tale
began to play out

as they pounded
across the imaginary stage
of my mind

in histrionic, fretting struts and stammers
of would-of's and could-of's and should-of's:

a gloomy, pointless fiction.

I closed my eyes
and went to the lake -

always, then, I go to the lake -
there:  in the glisten and hush,

in the light and calm and clarity of peace,
I am able to escape outside myself -
into the tranquility of being.

The hobgoblins sleep, then -
for they are easily bored

and they know - when I have beaten them.

photo:  Phantasmagoric Tree in Burnaby Central Park - W. Bourke
(phantasmagoric - a new word that I came upon and love - meaning:  having a fantastic or deceptive appearance, as something in a dream or created by the imagination)

photo:  White Pine Beach on Sasamat Lake - W. Bourke

© 2013 Wendy Bourke

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