a poet who might be sad, but feels something else instead.
was I just another twinkle in some universal eye? implied.
14 billion years ago, as flies the crow, nobody cared about what I wrote. of course, no me, not yet, not for a very very very long time. nobody was disturbed about that. patient I suppose. they assuredly could hold their breath.
and I should note, all this was perfectly fine with me too. silently waiting, well, not waiting actually at all, and was one of my better talents then. less so now, if you asked.
hadn’t even been to Disneyland yet.
someone just yelled out in the night. not too far away. never seems to happen when there’s sunlight around.
nobody is ever that young, not for very long.
The heart is an instrument, once broken, never repairs the same. (Kevin Kling) Odd, but I haven’t been thinking that way. I remember instead how once broken, shattered, pieces can come back together, reassembled, purposed anew as mosaic. like gravity when I first encountered that notion about broken things.
or maybe that’s just what I want to think?
desperate. there’s a word I’ve become more familiar with. am I that little kitten peeking from behind a single grape leaf, so small that one kernel of rice was a mouthful to chew. grandmother Janet, she lured it out bite by eager bite on her outreached fingertip. good life, good life, that was her wish. sincerely turned to action in her hands taking on the softest shape of a kitten, now her new best rescued friend.
a difference of size, but she held me just the same. unreservedly.
a wild life come to roost? write more. show more. reluctance is not worth the weight. so more words, close to daily now. are they more dumb, a lure bobbing on the water’s face. nibbles? never was much good at fishing, maybe still. then again, there’s that prayer answered with a single word – write. who am I not to respond? maybe we’ll call that faith. an act of trust within an untrustworthy life? maybe I don’t get too many more, although it’s not like I’m gonna use them up. just me chasing a perfect word in a perfect poem? good luck with that. there is no easy simple sum of all the breaths I’ve taken. time now to give some back?
of course conversation is communion too. me, I can only do one half. I am in your hands. as we all are in each others. in some circles it is said, the true nature of existence is love. what’s that mean? we should say simply, love is the unconditional granting of beingness, one to another. nothing else. no fairy tales. yet, unconditional, isn’t that everything being exactly as it is. no mean notion at all if you honestly look.
how often found? you answer that.
thus said, love is the space in which each atom each molecule each loaf of bread, each all of everything here exists. not like it belongs to us, not like we can give or withhold. most we can ever do is attempt to block it from expressing itself.
as they say, get out of the way!
Somebody said, Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don’t do anything to make it impossible. (Ron Padgett) there are good hearted people in our world. never lie about that.
show more. so my walls my shelves have some objects of others expression I’ve come to appreciate. but what good less you come to visit me in my room? none at all. so included here are many I hold dear for their generosity of expression. maybe I find a little something to say along with each even if the connection requires a certain willingness to bend the fork.
so express what I can by word or by image. day by day.
when I talk to me
when I talk to myself, language adopts a gentle tone, addressing caressing the child of my name. this living listens. ears like songs. or maybe rub my belly, small rounding circles like B. used to say, buddha belly, good fortune to touch. she was the only one. appreciation is a better gift. leave history aside, you already lived those parts. here child, take my hand.
and then one day, not unexpectedly, I went home.