We read selections of the GQ essay “The Strange & Curious Tale of the Last True Hermit" and wrote poems about solitude and being alone.
A Hermit finds things in solitude.
The convict finds silence in attitude.
Alienation in both, grinds gratitude.
Somewhere between life and death, a song?
No one hears the time, it is strong.
Silence is a prayer, that breeds happy wrongs.
At that point, no need to come along.
What one hears in solitude and silence,
Raises perplexing questions, namely in science,
Somehow we know direction.
Somehow between peace and violence.
Listen to Outside
The tapping of the branches
Moved by the mild wind –
Roots, slant underneath the ground.
In a frenzy to chase –
A hurried scene rushed by water.
I listen to them
After it rained –
Like the white, fluffy clouds –
Who wept in vain, to clean me.
I stood still –
The top of the turquoise colored lake
I studied the increase of the ripples
And the lavender colored petals
Which floated all over the place
Alone in Michigan
Here we are, once again.
Just when I thought my problems licked, here we go again.
If the curse of history is to repeat itself, everything makes sense to me.
If life has a way of repeating itself, I am definitely in the loop.
The quality of nothing, is to what we aspire.
It seems that life is nothing more than a Progressive commerecial, and we are left, chasing our tails.
If eternity is so important, who do we focus on what we can keep.
The rainbow is in the awning, when nothing else can do.
A plate full of leftovers, is what we are found looking for.
The hermit is in the shack, and I’m stuck in a pickle between Home and Third Base.
What I want is a friend, and all I’m left with is a bowl of cold cereal.
Don in your pajamas, and wait for the wind.
The sidewinder missile, is careening toward my brain.
What I want is a bowl of captain crunch, and what I got was a dirty jar of uncooked oatmeal.
What is the answer, then?
It is found in uncertainty, with nothing left at the end.