Sapiens

nightly scribbles are mostly rambles
of some uncontrolled mind
-less-ness of bits and scraps of worry
about tomorrow's settled mind.

if there are no gospels haunting us,
we may imaginatively decide as we learn
and never quite imagine cursing
a world that is new and beginning . . .

West Texas Dancing Ghost

I've danced enough to have gone around a circle or two;
I ain't whispering Jack of Diamonds because of you.

Last night's moon across the creek touching your face
was more than I required to stay in this silly all-out race.

I ain't running for fun,
and never was
I am totally under the gun
and always was

It there's a way out and we go back, have Charley show me.
If there ain't no way out for sure, just have Charley shoot me.

I'm up against it again;
somehow further than then.
Don't peer back at nothing over your shoulder
If I ain't beside you, it's the end of your trouble.

February 2020 Coronavirus Update

When the masks go away, I'll try to hug you again.
I continue to love you without touching, but you scare me.

And, of course, I scare you. But we should soon have rain.
Maybe it will wash away the silly sins between you and me.

My Genes Remember

My genes remember 1918:
my teenage grandmother succumbed to the virus of that year.
She never reached her twenties.

That was then and that may be our now . . .
Love everyone, but do not touch anyone . . .
Wait for the Spring rains and additional information.

We cannot accept what our current government says;
they are totally full of patronage and shit.
Guard yourself. Look to everyone around you.

It may be short and of little consequence. Pray yes!
But know of another side.
We are all on the same slide . . .

Be cautious. Be cautious.
Do not shake hands.
Do not hug your precious neighbors.

A Distant Drummer

Conversations continue through interludes of talking;
Who can always answer a specific question?
Life and love continue sometimes in silence.

It may not be god everywhere.

It may not be god everywhere.
She may be here or over there;
or maybe, with special particular,
she may mostly always be here or nowhere.
She lives, smiles, deep and dank, in our There.
Physics does not yet allow us a were, or no, or there.
Still, it is nowhere or a mere bluish glimmer of somewhere.
You and I will dance and twirl there, and touch cheeks there.
We will smile, kiss, and always grin love with tippytoes there.

Come By Here

I may count my blessings more than most . . .
I've had my plenty . . .
I am aware of those around us
who have much less than plenty . . .
While I am an architect of much of my life,
I am also an inheritor of my family
who prepared fields for my gardens.
They are a block . . .
I am a chip.

I must remind myself to look toward those
without a field of family.
Kumbaya.

Without Direction

Yes, almost lost in a picture in a museum,
but I am not stopping; I am stepping in:
a breezy, carefree walk along the Hudson.

There are many aromas to my new breezes;
best, wafting, growing scents of coffee
with hints of cinnamon and toasted sourdough.

I am alone totally surrounded, eyes on me,
within the comfort and fortitude of Spring
with no worry for lunch nor bed for the night.

I could easily end my day as I have started it,
a simple figure in the distance, faint to most eyes,
I remain stroked into a background along the Hudson.

I Think I Know Who I Am

I think I know myself . . .
imperfectly, but better than she or he.
I am an invention of their imagination
recharged with recurring stories and images.
I may be started somewhere near "The Little
Red Hen" but I have evolved well beyond
the Heinlein Space Cadets, from twinkle,
twinkle star to beyond the studied cadences
of Bach to the blistering incadences of
"music" beyond my musical vocabulary.

I hear my footsteps from yesterday echoing
among the foot-clapping sound of tomorrow's
half-hour funs. I remain me to a degree,
not always recognizable even to you or me.
I think I don't know who we are.

Trails

All of those arduous trails
through uncountable mountain passes
must lead to you somewhere.
I've been there,
looking for you.
You are not there.
I try to follow.

The edelweiss, silvery-white,
define some trails,
blooming ahead of us.
It could be a good place
for you to stop and rest.
Do you ever stop to sleep?

I never stop walking.
My sleeps are to short.

I knew who you were once;
now I am not so sure.

I despair
that we may have passed
in a meadow in Spring.
You, with your dark
greying straight hair
and I with my curling brown-grey beard.

I've climbed up and sometimes down
looking for you.
You never come into complete view.

Some trails disappear among fallen rocks.
The empty arms of winter trees
allow some passage.
I will explore these trails
before the next snow . . .

Homes Again Poem (Houston / Eugene)

We are glad to be home again
from our home there to our home here.
We are basking in drizzly rain
and missing many family and friends.

We patter from room to room in smiles
stopping to peer out windows
confirming our drizzling rainy sky;
tonight we are glass slippers of wine.

Gauging a Moment

I am aware that when I appear to skip a step, it isn't a fancy dance step. I seem to need a moment to rebalance my brain to synchronize with an assumed equilibrium. If the moment isn't readily available, a fall usually corrects the issue. It's all about a skip and a jump, a smile and an I'll see you tomorrow.

A Zapteo toward love

I dance my heart away
I cannot yet come home.

I stomp and clog for love
I jump toward you and sway away.

I am not always me, but sometimes you.
We dance our hearts away
and cannot yet remain home.

So, we stomp and clog our love
and jump toward whom we love.
You are always you, but sometimes me.

Spirals, Sparrows and Crossed Paths

If I repeat myself
it is so;
I know where I go.
I am no lost sparrow
tumbling alone.
I am like most of the rest,
seeking some safer nest.

I am in tune
with pantry and bookshelves
with setting suns and rising moons,
the bubbly breath of whales
and the silver path of snails.

I watch surrounded by the repetition of love and fear
and recognize the markings of less and care.
If I repeat myself like morning rain,
I've been there,
maybe more than once and maybe soon again.