from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (76)
so many boundaries
are employed
in any definition
the outlines cut
from what is not
are as important
as what remains
a pattern
even with
a patch
bears a pattern
if not original in intent
with care I fold my words
into this conversation
like origami cranes
from crisp white paper
(July 14, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (75)
with a hand lightly
touching a wall
as guide where
do you turn when
there is no wall
to the left
to the right
(July 13, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (74)
It is hard to hear
what must be said
easy to fall
into cliche
a pair of shoes
softly worn old
they know the way
to take you home
as cows wear down
a simple path
between one place
and another
no difference
really matters
our thoughts carve out
the same channels
and run like rats
trapped in a maze
never pausing
to look for more
than what was there
the last time here
repetition
a common thread
comforts us all
with old ideas
and traps us too
with such fools as I
(July 11, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey”(73)
beneath this static
this white noise
silence flows
unnoticed
pervasive
the river’s source
as in prayer i kneel
cup my hands
and drink
(July 9, 2020)
even now I hear them
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (72)
“Sea, I am like you, filled with broken voices”
—Guillaume Apollinaire
insistent demanding attention
soft whispers curl at my feet
like cats they claw at me
with their sharp reminders
lightly pulling at my skin
until the ground is awash
in the blood of memory
and then slightly below the surface
small phrases embedded in dead
conversations rise like tattered faces
from the sea to mouth their silent
vowels like fish dying in the sand
until the raw scraps of language
in which I am tangled
are cast out in a storm surge
far out among the dark waves
and I drown choking
with nothing to say
(July 6, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (72)
“Sea, I am like you, filled with broken voices”
—Guillaume Apollinaire
insistent demanding attention
soft whispers curl at my feet
like cats they claw at me
with their sharp reminders
lightly pulling at my skin
until the ground is awash
in the blood of memory
and then slightly below the surface
small phrases embedded in dead
conversations rise like tattered faces
from the sea to mouth their silent
vowels like fish dying in the sand
until the raw scraps of language
in which I am tangled
are cast out in a storm surge
far out among the dark waves
and I drown choking
with nothing to say
(July 6, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (71)
some time after sunrise I wake
go downstairs book notebook
pen in hand make coffee take
my meds check various
social platforms eat some thing
shower get dressed
sometimes read sometimes write
sometimes nap wake
cook dinner wash the dishes
watch TV listen to music and
then after some time go to sleep
(July 2, 2020)
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (70)
the cat rolls
like time
into the sun
(July 2, 2020)
by
from a work in progress, “process, not a journey”(69)
the grey cat sits
on the table by the window
and watches the mockingbird
on the elm outside
.
I watch her patience
today and yesterday
and last week
and think she’s oblivious
to sit so stoically
day after day
without hope
of any desires’
consummation
.
I lose my way each day
throughout the day
thinking of this
then distracted by that
as if the unspecified contains
some mysterious truth
more than a cat
sitting in the sun
(June 28, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey: (68)
“I cannot keep my dreams straight.”
-Franz Kafka
some nights most nights
after a whiskey or more
years if not decades
swirl like blue smoke
at my feet
and I forget
where I am as time
falls away like an old drunk
stumbling on my way home
the familiar story
the soft path alters
and strangers step out
of the dark laughing
vaguely and I have forgotten
why I’m laughing
then laugh again
(June 23, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “Process, Not a Journey” (67)
our earth wobbles its way
about the sun like a drunk
unsure of her footing
moves again
toward the bar
*
day by day minute by minute
plods toward darkness
for the next six months
each day grows darker
by one minute
*
not quite disturbing
the dullard doves
who coo complacently
on the fence
–
cardinals and jays
fussing constantly
slip after each other
between tree branches
–
I watch and listen
to this dance
for hours
and can do nothing
*
as it was in the beginning
world without end
(June 23, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: process, not a journey (65)
she speaks of her self
and all that entails
.
your memory is not hers
less so than those daffodils
.
shut up and listen
(June 19, 2020)
by
from a work in progress, “process, not a journey” (66)
a grey cat twitches
her tail in the grass
.
who has time
to listen
to a sparrow’s
stressed twit-twit
from a tree
(June 19, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (64)
what he remembers now
is different than what
he remembered then
.
now he is old
and does not remember
as well what happened
.
then he was young
and foolish and remembered
trivial things
.
of little use then
even less so
now
.
as he holds
his aspects together
between fragile hands
.
facets of the past
spin off light
for a moment
.
and he sees her eyes
that first night
they almost kissed
(June 16, 2020)
by
from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (63)
inevitably
we would join hands
twirl a circle
with wild abandon
then fall into laughter
on the fresh cut grass
.
summer was summer
for longer than a summer
could be or ever would
be again
.
when the kids on the street
were everyone we knew
and the world was safe
nearby
(June 16, 2020)
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