She is my very own weathercaster
Drawing my attention away
Into some conjectured future
Conjuring up expectations
Tinkering with my emotions
Desire and disappointment
Elation, hope and fear

Stoking my imagination
Into creating or revising
My plans and proposals
I’m no longer in the room
I’ve left my body, marooned
Blind … I’m off remote viewing
Living an imaginary scenario

Any hint of current awareness
Has gone for a burton now
Sight, with the other senses
Has gone off line, no signal
A fake weather screensaver
Blocks out any true live contact
With the weather outside my window

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on May 18, 2013, in Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. Reminds me of Ethel’s poem, “Ancient Cord,” at least as far as the message goes. I like this poem, Ben. The whole idea that we forget about the real weather while watching news about the weather is exactly how too much of life has become. The idea, like so much of your poetry, is clever and well done.


    • I was hoping to address here both collective and individual issues, to speak of mindfulness and its absence, to speak of the mental twittering that too often passes itself off as “life” and “love”, And thanks for the compliment, Tom.


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