SUNDAY POEMS

A morning rush of words set down and set loose with minimal thought and maximum pleasure.

STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

It flows unabated, undammed, unexpurgated.
It is the essence and the particulars, the minimum
requirement for daily dreaming. It is the who and what,
the why and where, leaving only the how to be sorted
as time and temperament allow.

Who dares tread these floors, rattle these doors, ask for more? 
What matters require tending, mending, or rending? 
When will it cease its ceaseless pouring forth? 
Why so restless in its wake, awash in such compulsion?
Where is its point of origin, the butterfly wings that set it all 
in motion, shifting past to present, present to future, 
never to always, always, always?

How we are is how we were is how we will be is how 
the space within becomes the space without and vice versa. 
How we wish and upon which star is left to conjecture: 
revealing too much risks being left with too little and that’s 
an unacceptable level of risk. 
How we are relies on surrendering to the stream’s flow.

©2026 Skip Berry