20200418 For the prompt at Global Poetry Writing Month, to relish life’s small pleasures.  And what is saturday but a mini saturnalia?  The best part, why it’s better than sunday, is there’s no gloom of tomorrows labors over it.  These are the greatest pleasures, really.




reductio dichotomy

we say this is a three dimensional place
but up and down dont go very far
and north south east west just
come around again after some distance

so tomorrow we will go back to the office.

even this is too much
so we picture this as a plane
our day to day is basically a flat earth
and move between home work and the mall
the market or the river or the well

there still too much there
so much to experience, to feel
that we block out even more
shrink those planes to a line
or two (of coke? poetry?)
right wrong
black white
left right
red pill blue pill
choose the parameters just right
and decision becomes easy, obvious

we make machines that help unravel the weaving
navi to reduce all roads to the one we need
music to cover the wall of sounds assaulting
beating on the ear drums
tv to numb and provide perfected thoughts
social media to reinforce what i think i know
(rather, what i got from the show)

and yet there are woods and streams beyond the city
)there is always a forbidden forest near the castle(
roads beyond my current route
and up there, space.

rockets demonstrate the longing
kitchen cabinets and walk-in closets too.
in open floorplans, in every successful sales pitch,
there are signs. (like this one)



partially inspired by

Stop the Clock

each clock lasts exactly
a thousand years
as i rush through your
slow motion world
slipping between moments
the way one avoids the raindrops
oh,  you can’t do that? hm
mind leaps, like electrons, ever expanding
jumping out upon orbits
mulling over planets
sweeping grandiose schemes in
stone, then gas, then light itself
with all the seriousness of singularity
thats where it all unravels,
the navel of the universe,
the belly button, unbuttoned
thats where the connection was
the last union before separate me
severed in seconds, completely
then denied any orbit at all
completely adrift.  it will take lifetimes
to find trust again
see how the specific is resisted?
narrow the focus, friend.
the detail devil hides in grit
in dirt, in sand
be bold, in an inner way
face him, focus.  sharpen.
the space between the ticks grows
lengthens.  know the small
there is only your specific action
in the now
once you are firmly there,
the ticking stops


The Robe of Time

the notion of time is a delightful little construct, and has proven quite useful in perhaps millions of applications, though a global concept of time wasnt’ really needed until railroads started bridging great distances.

daylight savings time is much more of a mystery.  autumn still shaves a little off each daylight time, we seem to delight in tricking ourselves with our clocks.  i’d rather not make that change, myself.  A year ago, we moved through this same space, I found napowrimo thanks to Marlin at Soul to Ink.  Like a little dutch boy withdrawing his finger, the flood unleashed has yet to diminish.

seasons change in turn
we rise, live then pass away
timelines drawn in sand

20170331 to write a haibun, the early prompt for Global Poetry Writing Month,glopo2017button1

Our Glass

I am 
Like an hourglass
A big bulb of hasbeens
A big bulb of maybees
At the center
That’s where the action is
That’s where it matters
The grains come and go
I am there
I am the flow



There is not enough sleep in the world
For the time that I have left
Strobe-like days flash by
Hurtling toward my death
Turn it up, turn it on, faster still
Screaming like tires as their
Road is ripped away
As the frantic pace increases
Fluid tenants lose their leases
The vibration cross the threshold
Energy so high it seems calm


Words worth

What are these words worth?
Without them, we’ll get along
Some lay dormant, scratched in
A tablet used as a door mat, 
Through unread centuries,
Till repair-forced excavation uncovers
The gift of King Zvonomir

Some words will shine
Bold radiant with new
swept up in an astounding flurry
On cheap newsprint laid
Soon swept up in the recycle bin.

But a few endure
Stories that catch
And wear a groove in the world
A golden book passed down
Told again and again
Those words are worth the world

From prompt value from mizQ

Repeating cycles

Three different poems in one post, a first. Here you can see how the playing with repetition (conceptually or actually) developed. Some ideas arose but not quite fleshed out, others crisp and tight right out of the box. And by the end I’m getting hungry, and running out of time.

Repeating Cycles I

Repeat the sounding joy
Enjoin in the sounding repeat
In the sounding repetition
There is joy, again
I wrote this yesterday
I write this again now
I’ll write this tomorrow
We cannot laugh enough
Repeat the sounding joy
Measure the bay depth again
Repeat the sounding
Play that record again
Repeat the sound
Do it once more
Repeat the

Repeating Cycles II

We turn again in little circles
Minute hand goes round
Pacing out our tracings
Worn paths around the yards
Hour hand goes round
Each number Like tides
Twice in twenty four hours
Days turn and turn again
As world spins round
Weeks come and go
Each the same yet not quite so
Moon marks another arc
Months by the dime a dozen
Circumscribed by years these circles spin
Concentric in nesting bins
Each life lived comes around
Rising like knobs on a cylinder
Against a thin metal pling or plong
vibrates change, then pass away

Repeating Cycles III

Repeating cycles
Make that drive again
Each day, same way

Re peating cycles
Springtide Sod-roof repairs
Make more single malt

Reap eating cycles
I’ll harvest mealtimes
From my hourfields

And the commentary, that’s something new, too. Whew.