caught in the reeds

Hello, my dear digital friends…

Our imaginations are very powerful things.

With them, we can construct utterly false realities and scenarios that we may even come to believe with enough time and repetition.

For example, I had thoroughly convinced myself over the last 3 years that I was immune to Covid. Never had it. Even with all the travel I do for work.

Well, this week, fate (or karma) disabused me of this foolish notion… I have Covid. Nasty illness…

Thankfully, I tested quickly, got some Paxlovid, and sit in my daughter’s bedroom, fully sequestered from the world until I test negative.

My wife has dropped everything to care for me. Cannot say how much I love and appreciate her for that. And for her hyper rigid quarantine protocols and rules (so she does not catch it).

This poem has been in the wings for some time, awaiting release.

My fevered brain is not at the apex of creativity to produce anything new this week. But I have always loved this never-released poem – – and hope you will, too.

As always, please let me know your thoughts, feelings, and reactions to the poem in the Leave A Reply section below.

Back to bed for me. πŸ€’

-PS Conway ☘️ ☘️ ☘️

☘️ ☘️ ☘️ ☘️ ☘️

caught in the reeds

ears tickle with distant heralds

with sibilations

with persuasions

soft stirs of ireful angel wings

you sing to me of this freedom

of release

of peace, perhaps

harbored somewhere deep in Eden

where we never need anything

but the knowledge

but the eternity,

buried in pomegranate seeds;

ask the convocation of souls

caught in the reeds

caught ‘long Lethe…

what do you really know of god?


  1. Reed beds are a stirring, whispering world, where the imagination of a feverish mind could run wild. A lonely place, the chilling sound of unseen wild fowl, yet the beauty of the place heals the soul.
    A poem to stir any imagination.
    Take care and get well soon.

    1. Well, Sandie, this is one feverish mind who totally loves your comment! πŸ’• That last verse is abundantly sad to me, as the Greeks believed souls who drank from the River Lethe, if unworthy of the Elysian Fields, would forget everything and be trapped forever in the reeds that bordered Elysium. Basically right on the border of paradise. (Cue the ominous music!) πŸ™πŸ»β˜˜οΈβ˜˜οΈβ˜˜οΈ

    1. When I Googled poegranate seeds in the Bible, it says that the Jewish priest robes were adorned with them in the Old Testament. Ironic for me, since my dad’s name (before being forced to change it) was of the priestly Cohen tribe. This poem questions any redemption of sin upon death. It leaves me ambivalent about salvation.

      1. Naomi! Why in the world would your dad be forced to change his name? That sounds like a really dark backstory to your comment. Much like your takeaway from this poem… which I love! Cheers πŸ–€πŸŽπŸ™πŸ»πŸŒΉπŸ·βœ¨

  2. Wow! The important question is asked in the last line. What do we really know? Stories told and passed down from generations to generations provide our basic knowledge and understanding. We struggle to find real meaning out of guy

    1. Right!? Exactly, PS. And ask those pour souls trapped whispering in the reeds along the river within sight of Elysium what they think, too! Tough poser methinks. Cheers, my friend! πŸ·πŸ™πŸ»πŸŽπŸ–€πŸŒΉβœ¨

    2. Sorry…was riding in a car and didn’t realize I didn’t finish my thought. We struggle to find real meaning out of these stories and from what we have been told. And the reeds do whisper!

    1. So glad you liked it! And thanks for the kind wishes. Feeling much better as of now. πŸ™πŸ»πŸŽπŸŒΉπŸ·βœ¨

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