A guy writes to me about my poem.
“Echoes of Whitman”, he says.
“Echoes of myself”, I say.
Me and the other guy who is also me.
I am not just one being, one thought,
one copy but an entity of much.
Many songs, not just of myself,
many marches, none of which I composed.
Many parades, some of which I organized
are all part of who I am.
I heard an echo of my own cry.
It was a lovely echo, consoling in a way,
though, that bothered me. I enhanced my cry.
The echo shouted back in such a way as to rile me.
That is more like it, I thought.
I want nothing to do with timidity.
You go nowhere with it and no one cares.
I will walk above the river, not wishing
to be lost in its currents for no good purpose.
The bridge is a safe place with the advantage of
being able to observe and then make decisions.
I have no longing to be someone else or
a decoy set out to attract the real thing.
One of my selves is real, so I use pen-names
to keep the things of life unsettled.
My other selves will speak for themselves.
My concepts of the high-desert and a marshland,
except for the intrinsic differences,
may be very much alike.
I see the spiritual in both and
that is my high-hand or go to in life.
I do not wish to use vagueness in
an effort to skim over reality.
I know the food of the soul
just as I know troubled waters.
We walk swiftly, me and the other guy,
knowing time is so precious.
We will not take time to be measured
on this perpetual journey. We know
Who will be waiting for us.
Stansberry McKricken aka Stanski
Steve Haarman 