I Forget by George Page

I forget where to put things.

Does love go into the cockroach or the cuddly puppy?

Do I put consciosness into the dried bones of sages ?

I forget who puts things here.

Was it the hunched over hairy prophet on the stoney road?

I forget who puts things here but she appears as music.

Music is the salt of repetition, peppered by the unexpected.

The lull of constant repetition induces trance like states.

It lacks the punctuation of the AH-Ha moment.

Give me one grain of pepper and the composition will

Ring with just the proper portion of dissonance.

I forget where to put things. Will they fit in my pocket ?

Can poetry fit into the suggestion box or is it a tithing that

Must be tossed into the Sunday service collection plate?

If I put my faith in the cookie jar, will it be a chocolate chip world ?

Where do I put all these rhetorical questions?

Where do I put the wonder of this continuous humming of Love?

I remember and in remembering, I give thanksgiving.

I forget where to put things but I never forget one thing

I am a dream created by a dreamer that I have never seen.

• Acoustic
• folk
• meditation
• new age
• poetry
• spoken word
• Vilcabamba