Trudging the Mirage
walk slowly and with heavy steps, typically because of harsh conditions.
plod, tramp, tromp, drag oneself, move heavily, walk slowly, plow, slog, toil, trek;
informal: traipse, galumph - (coined by Lewis Carroll in "Through The Looking Glass"; a blend of gallop and triumph.)
an optical illusion caused by atmospheric conditions, esp. the appearance of a sheet of water in a desert or on a hot road caused by the refraction of light from the sky by heated air; something that appears real or possible but is not in fact so.
optical illusion, hallucination, vision, phantasmagoria, apparition, fantasy, chimera (a thing hoped or wished for but in fact is illusory or impossible to achieve), figment of imagination; literary phantasm.
(Definitions from Apple Dictionary)
Beguiling illusions enthrall
So like those far horizons
One can never really reach,
Believing in their promises
Which vanish or retreat
Except on mountaintops
Where they seem inclined to spawn
Crisp shimmering mirages
While birthing in the breach
Upon their sumptuous height.
Hopes and promises,
Though challenged, yet sustain,
Even so, and even though
If they’re not quickly vanishing,
They are, at least, receding
into some infernal crawl;
Into an ashen emptiness
Where no more lights remain
To fuel further crystal dusk and dawn,
Revealing only arid plain.
’Tween death and birth
Hopes are open-handed.
Yet however far that they pursue
Horizons bright and clear mirage,
Will vanish with the view.
They would not seem to bend
With curvature of Earth
Whose promises imbue
Mirages spherical with light;
So thus, can never end.
Perhaps this poem is but mirage;
Perhaps it's only seeming true;
Perhaps my quest for not the least
Than surer route from me to you
Are all mere convolutions, too, -
Sketched and stretched with promise fading
But whose compelling invitation
Is, like itself, a feast invading
Mirage upon mirage of
______© Nellieanna H. Hay
What is it now propelling,
Compelling me to write?
It is not a hopeless plight,
It is not my dreams in flight,
It is not what may, but only might,
Which no longer be impediments
Which have sometimes been
And made me stop and write.
Here it is again right now,
That impelling drive.
A force that pushes to address.
In all such moments chooses
To interrupt whate're I'm doing
To pause to jot some lines
Which will not be denied.
Eating, sleeping, bathing, keeping
Routines or others seek,
But whose demands be less
Why is it?
The words must be expressed
With all my heart and might,
Else I would burst and make a mess
And that would be an ugly sight.
I write because I must,
Not because of so much joy;
Not because I am depressed;
Not because I feel betrayed;
Not because my heart is light.
I simply write because -
______© Nellieanna H. Hay
Thomas Bergersen - Dreammaker (Illusions)
Tricks of light require special weather conditions: still air and layers of cooler or warmer air atop each other literally bend the light, creating beguiling illusions beckoning one to seek them out.
Haven't we all thought we actually see that shimmering up ahead, looking all the world like actual water on the hot surface of a road or the image of a butte that seems so real, but is in fact the reflection of the sky produced by conditions in the air? When occurring In the desert sand, these illusions create much larger mirages which can lead thirsty travellers to believe that they are approaching water which lures them to scoop up handfuls of sand and ingest it, thinking to quench the rabid thirst that has almost driven them mad. I wonder whether camels see mirages as ponds of water, too. . .
I wonder which are the mirages and whether the sand is the primeval mirage. Perception is all one has with which to make the distinctions, perhaps.
Could we be mistaken?
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© 2014 Nellieanna Hay
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