Run Riot

Earth looked deep, densely layered in the river, by which I sat the land had been quite arid, horrid at times, and reaching here turned out to be a destination not just a place to pass through   metamorphic rock rages in the torrent touching the senses, I must write feeling metaphors and memories  mingling in the ages, raging by past me, unfolding my past here unsettling a place unsurpassed   I hadn’t noticed how I stagnated now at last I can pass, the threshold  is open, the river is ripe, I overflow going insane in the course of it but it has to this way, this path, this  is an initiation of sorts, or a riot   out of concrete, outside of view, with hindsight, you say you had guessed it, but had we really known, really been here at all, isn’t it all new now, as is each moment, a river running.

© Ursula Troche, 7.2020



Up, down, side

Once there was a different world  upon a string of memories, lived  within, now gone. into the outer  reaches of reality. A sideline to a  centre now shifted and dropped.   Out of use, order, or further beyond  functioning, now it doesn’t work  like this any more. What might  have been a dream then is normal  now, and vice versa.    The way we live has turned upside under  and downright different. We wanted a change  but we didn’t see the direction, or its dimensions  coming. You drove the car and took the train.  We kept meeting in the middle.    Stopping at nothing but emptiness.  As if that’s the only thing we wanted. In there was the rust and the dust,  the reality and the dream. And we turned them over and over again.
                                                                                   
© Ursula Troche, 8.2020



Out of Light

Take a line and connect it to itself.  Then let that circle be unspoken.  Speak of other things,  not how you made this space for yourself.    I let moments pass, in an experiment on patience. I went to sit on my desk looking  deliriously out of the window behind it.  The sky transformed beyond my eyes  from cloudy to glowing. Colours emerged,  a spectrum. Then a prism, a rainbow,  aftermath of the rain. The play,  then the display, and even the discourse  of the colours prompted me to run  downstairs and go out. I wanted to be  closer to the show, I wanted to see  the picture bigger, larger, everywhere.  I brought my notebook with me, to  take notes from the sky on location,  out of doors, out of the house. And there it was, big circle in the sky, filled out with sun. This one had never been  a line, its space is primal. Lit, too. I wrote in my lined notebook, on the blank page  not filled yet. Underneath my note I drew  the circle of the sun. But I couldn’t fill  the light in. I just couldn’t. Don’t mention it.
                                                   
© Ursula Troche, 8..2020