Finding the Hidden Things

By The Jotter

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If we go into the world With eyes open, nostrils flaring Ears at the ready, And patience - always patience Watching…we will find those things Which are hidden to the casual passerby, Hidden from the modern world of fast pacing That to and fro, from job to party to Special effect with no story. But the patient will find The small beauty, the careful plot of life, the ant still and sensing, The suggestion of a past not allowed into the rushed life. The hidden things coming to those Who hide between the moments of today And tomorrow.

The hidden watcher camouflaged In the tree watching the approach of the city To his home, Watching for the coming of the four-legged chasers. One of the hidden, a cousin To the pursuit of patience. 2

Souls, Hidden in the past Their direction known but the purpose Is anyone’s guess. Their toes once curled around the shifting tan sand To press forward. Some with an idea of where they head Others Just guessing at their future. The future sometimes Only leaves us with footprints And the past gives us A walking sun-dream. The deepest imprints Will last beyond the wind Longer than the rest. The lesson: don’t rest.

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Perhaps they all walked to here. Where is that hidden crowd, Leaving one Alone Solo in the sun? Stark white steel and stucco building Left to rise against the sky A sloth to rise from its antlike beginnings But now stabbing the blue sky Rising like a fat phallus From the green jungle At the edge of sand And footprints. The fertility of imagination Is sometimes a blessing. The imagination of fertility Can be a curse.

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Where does the seed go? Blown on the wind Of chance Of drifting there From here And wafting like the cotton wings it has The air caressing it and teasing it here, Then there. Here, the eventual resting place hidden, The seeds are laid in the future, the Billowing A means for creation to receive What we conceive. The milk-weed to arise Hidden in the small core Of a small brown seed on the end Of a white wisp.

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Some of us hide In the now, In a crowd At the back, Unsure of what we face. Unsure of what we think. So we duck. It’s like it was back in school. If we look at our feet the gym teacher won’t Pick us To demonstrate the new thing. Being taught today, for that Act of being picked Always makes some of us nervous And calls us out of hiding. 6

Not in the sand Do we hide our heads And hearts. The Black Swan Once thought not to exist, Dreamed by statisticians as the event Which can’t happen Statistically. So when it does happen, It’s a black swan. It happened. We can’t hide our heads. And maybe we haven’t But we’re certainly near to it Standing at the edge of a hidden surface Putting our head in our feathers.

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It’s there Just beneath the surface Breaking the tension of water For air Concentric circles telltale signs Of life Moving below our vision our Awareness of things on that other side Weak How many see only the algae blooms Not that ancient thing which moves below?

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Where have we gone? What have we done That we don’t enjoy the sun? Parasols protect the empty lounging apparatus, Those thoroughly modern bygones Of irony, the desire to enjoy the sun Hereditary From the primitive, But the time to get here Acquired From modern work completed inside. We are not here.

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Hidden power in wind And water The broken sea of glass Turbulent To match The mood of the day The mood of the watcher Hidden The coming storm Behind the rolling power Of breaking wave and roiling cloud Of push to shore of intemperate air Invading the peace Bringing with it the electricity Of life and death.

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Life and death. Dinner hidden From the seeker. Life and death, Predator on stilt legs Prey under a pebble Of sand. Move fast little legs Or the surf Will hide you as well.

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Initial fast wing flaps Giving way to glide Hidden grace over curling power Flying away from our approach. Is it just the bird leaving us? Or is it the nature Of nature to flee our advance? Is nature, Like the squirrel in the tree, Watching For the approach of that without grace? The hidden grace of wings The grace of hydro power beneath the waves The foaming kiss of curling water To the approaching sand And in it all The approaching hidden slap! of water Flat on sand.

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Big wings or small wings There is hidden beauty in folded wings, Crawling on the living leaf, Drawn by the scent And the offer of rest. What would make the world Open up its wings Without need of closing Or rest?

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The appearance of hidden eyes, Warning predators away Drawing religious adoration of the ancients. The seeing eye that brings reward Or danger if you are not careful. The key For the watcher Is to remain hidden And not disturb the scene.

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Hidden scavenger on the field of yellow, If you look close in the middle, Hidden flowers behind protecting screen, The power of exploding color Hidden from those who pass by. You need to enter To see the pulse of nature The yellow below Matching that of sun above. Scent on air from open blooms The full beauty still behind Closed buds. The future holds both the fullest delight Of completed blossoms And The full disinterest of decayed spent flowers Once their duty is complete.

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In our desire, in our Conceit We have brought within our boundaries That which has no boundary. Nature, hidden behind our fences. Is it’s power diminished? We think it is enough To miniaturize nature And cage it so that we have a piece caught. Inside or out, however, the hidden Gives us a balm, a boon. Lucky is he who can see into his own soul. Shared paranoia and delight over the hidden things We might ourselves become hidden on the cliff, Overseeing the passage of a river, In order to cast the spelling words And discover what passes us by on a typical day.

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All pictures and words © by Steve Ullom Under Creative Commons licensing Cover picture is over the Mackinaw river in Illinois. Squirrel is from backyard in Normal, Illinois. All other pictures from Florida, near Melbourne.

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