The Western Voice
Mine is a western voice
Calling silently from the depths of the bath
Peering out from a surface that tears itself apart;
Minute tears driving upwards to join with cloud cousins
Who are always watching down, banding together to gather
The courage to tear apart and come down.
And I, in a huff of thought, submerge.
We sing as one, we western voices,
Though each to different moons.
It is to the paper now my whimsy serenades.
I have pinched this afternoon’s immersing
From garden’s seeding chore.
Instead planting perspective that now grows slow-mo visions.
I try to still that eye as I dry and fly
To the blank page. How much can I save
Of the precious prize that inspires and dies?
I, in a bathos brume, ablate.
No big words, sings the western voice
Booming in on board rattling spurs.
I just took a bath o’ and my woman works the brume.
Ablate of her good dinner is fuel for my tune.
And what’s all this of clouds and surfaces tearing and banding together?
Just say that it’s steam from the bath behaving like upside-down weather.
And I, in my western voice, agree.
Copyright © Montgomery Thompson 2014
Montgomery Thompson is an Idahoan living in Northern Ireland. Monte is a science fiction novelist, graphic designer, musician, and eater of egg-sandwiches.