An Outcast Joy

23 Oct 2006

Previous: First Reunion

2006 journal :: Writing


Peculiar, particular, singular, angular,
likely to offend those in charge.
We are running away to join the circus,
laughing at our motley selves.

Assembling from all the far places,
emerging from corners where we are unseen,
gathering those who are not content
with marking time until they die.

"I have found my people!" she cries,
holding fire in her hands.

"Brothers and sisters, be welcome!"
he shouts, opening arms wide.

There is no plan, no map, no trail laid before us.
There is nothing but the fiery heart to guide us.
Each dance is the dance of creation,
each song the cry of a difficult birth.

We take on stripes and hues and textures,
alien to the marketplace,
or take the sun and moon as clothing,
or whatever appearance that moves us.

Passion and compassion surround us,
move through us and around us,
shape us like a great river,
or a hot wind filled with sand.

Invention is our mother.
Generosity is our father.
Ecstasy is our sister.
Vision is our brother.

When our revels are done
we steal away from this place,
we carry what we brought
and leave without a trace.

Our nature is to change and grow,
to learn each other's soul,
peculiar and singular still,
but not alone.