Poetic Prose

   Some write poetry naturally and everything they do is prosaic. Last night my mind was filled with thoughts stopping me from sleeping. A dog kept barking hauntingly echoing fear in the solitude.After writing down a poem that demanded action, I read Dylan's Chronicles for an hour. But sleep would not come and more words filled my restlessness until sirens pulled me from the bed into the near full moon daynight. The next three full moons are Supermoons or perigee moon, when it is closest to Earth making it appear 30% brighter and 14% bigger. Orange was entering through the fence gate and I called him to come in. He took his time finally crying on the fencepost that he was ready. Back in bed I found Jane fighting off a millipede that had entangled itself in her hair and brought her into my mania. When dreams came they were the replay of the night's events demanding I recount these strange happenings. Was it the three movies we saw this week for $2 at Regal Cinemas opening or the majestic July nightsky that was like a luminescent highlighted painting?  I finished Graham Nash's Wild Tales and have been staying busy with some local concerts during the week. With all the rain everything is growing and very green. Yet we haven't had too many muggy hot unbearable days. Strange days, strange nights, isn't life strange when you're the stranger?