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Often while reading,

I scan the words,

turn the pages,

and then the book

vanishes, and I vanish,

aware of nothing.

 

To hold nothing,

and have nothing hold,

I desire this freedom–

a breath unnoticed,

as it is

ubiquitous:

 

Radiant, without center,

I cannot name

my discontent.

A wind, at my ear,

stills as I turn;

yet, still’s nearby.

 

(November 4, 2018)

Birdsong

multi_mockingbird

 

“All life is a foreign country”

–Jack Kerouac

 

All my life my tongue

could not curl about

the words spoken here—

my teeth cut my cheek

as I stumbled over

simple words, simple ideas.

I was silenced in simple

misunderstandings, in fear

of the wrong word spoken

too loudly, too softly,

or not at all.

I wish I were

a mockingbird able

to flit between the leaves

singing the song of others;

to speak earnestly around

the mundane bits of life

we share, like now, or mimic

an old man’s nod of greeting,

or children’s laughter outside

this window; or to simply cross

over the border to a home.

 

(September 1, 2018)

Problematic Musings

 

Unless a care be taken to repair,

happiness is a tenuous lacework,

fragile and personal; the past

and present knot, like fate,

into seemingly intricate patterns

where one thread, time-worn

or simply stressed, snaps,

and the whole unravels into dust.

It comes to a question of hugs

or hurts, as if the two could easily

divide along traceable fault lines,

rather than entwine like caduceus.

I am conflicted as to the intent:

to be wary, or to pretend content.

 

(August 2, 2018)

Flower as Metaphor

IMG_4697

 

I am not a flower

about to bloom, nor

one whose petals have fallen.

 

I am not a flower,

nor is this poem

my prurient confession:

 

I am not a flower

worn like a corsage,

or draped on coffin tops.

 

I am not defined

like a bridal bouquet

for I am not a flower.

 

Flowers are more

than what they are;

I am only what I am.

 

(July 31, 2018)