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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Having Nothing Again

I shout into the wind
because all the words are gone.
I carry bags of weightless mementos,
a collector of trash and heaven.
Come look in my bags.
One is for laughter,
not raucous,
not happy,
but innocent.

I laughed in surprise, in wonder.
Once at a clown
until I saw him weeping.
Once at death,
before knowing pain.
It is laughter made of shyness,
and surprise,
such is my laughter.

Another contains pages,
not books.
Letters and notes that spoke for me,
left me breathless,
opened up the sky.
One is a poem that gave me poetry,
another,
instructions how to pray,
though I speak to God without prayer.
Just pages,
which someday will fly away like birds
caught in a storm.

Then still another bag
full of voices,
the sound of brothers,
forgotten friends,
lovers,
and strangers saying kind things
to each other.
It is a deaf man’s bag,
a well of noise
coming from the earth.

And then,
one for trash,
for strange and unusual sticks
and boxes,
potions,
scraps of pleasure,
to puzzle over and forget,
all forgotten things that fill up earth,
debris and emptiness.

So I’m a collector of sorts,
ready to give it all away,
to have the table cleared,
a barren space,
like sitting on a hill,
listening to the world sing
and be silent.

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