lock-down fatigue

I do not recognize lock-down fatigue. Some days have always been harder than other days. I have treasures (pictures and mementos in my home that need dusting and study and perhaps further understanding). But I look forward to the sunset and a resulting sunrise and a chance to walk outside (alone or in tandem with my mate). Shit happens. Roses bloom. Trees leaf and shade. We march with the drummer we have and always have. Slow or fast ain't the shit . . . smiles are more to the taste.

Spatial Memory

Remember what I say . . .
Some importance may dawn after awhile:
maybe in early morning rain, or a moving horizon.
It can happen in multiple ways.
Be ready, help others, but always
look west at nightfall and, if possible, smile.
Mostly wake facing East to raise a true dawn.

Ignore the rest I say until my last utterance.
The early verse is rehearsal . . .
the latest . . . or finally some last stanza
describes in total the state of the universe.
It's where I am when I am no longer here
unless I am finally lost in everywhere.

Awakening

I am more us than me
but I am totally me at dawn
when I'm not sure what I see
until nuzzled. I know my lady fawn.

Squirrels on a Wheel

Yesterday and tomorrow are rough enough
and tomorrow and tomorrow will be rougher.
It is sometimes the way of my world
that straight or curved paths whirl
into a new reality of varieties of nonsense
sometimes coalescing into pretend sense
mostly to the left and twice to the right
for a hundred years or so
and then, again, around we go.
You can't keep the same pair of dice all night.
We mostly dance in patterns of hope
from minus to "maybe we can cope."
In my favorite world
it is not best to be a squirrel.

Time to Sound-Off

(sperm whales or snapping shrimp)

It is growing difficult to remain silent
toward leadership intentionally disquieting
without explanation nor thoughtful intent.
I am fueling myself toward quitting the quiet.

Today or Tomorrow

I will dance and play
mostly today, and maybe pray.

We do not know tomorrow,
we cannot know tomorrow,
and the difference is immense.

What we do and what we may,
these opposite ends of a chasm of tense
could sink the world we know.

Last Year Today and Beyond

yesterday was never tomorrow
except in minds twisted in knots,
living again moments of some sorrow
of knowing yestermorning and now. . .

some of us will be strolling along
singing a bunch of very silly songs
without a single nod toward tomorrow
except in minds twisted in knots

A Resurrection of Sorts

I. Do I know You?

Most humans are a mystery.
Even close friends brim indecipherably.
Who are these people?

II. Forget What I Said

I've actually been contemplating a different direction . . .
Not on a compass
But still, inland toward the mountains and snow.
Possibly a trek of some days,
and a way to save some resemblance of tomorrow's Spring.
Not a picnic exactly
but more a resurrection without holiday,
and no known coronavirus.

We can all go together.

Street in Daylight

I.
It exists for the automobile:
a droll rainbow of cars
as brittle as any eggs in a nest,

as noisy as complaining chicks.
The only people
sit yolk hard within the cars

going.somewhere. They pass
with linear certainty
from here to there and back.

The street is silver, inanimate,
its chartreuse brown border
a bit of manicured pretension.

II.
The street moves
("Turn right on M
Ave and it'll take ya
to where yer goin.")

as it is moved upon.
The street moves
as words move
from margin to margin.

III.
Finally, it is the animator
who decides the reality,
who chooses the color and place.

The street can be seen
from any angle, but it is not
a Venetian canal.

Love does not change the street
from chunky asphalt to liquid,
from blood alley to romance.

The animator is limited
by the street, even though
an omnivorous viewer of the street.

Moments

As lovely as Paris
coming lightly from Helen's tent,
salt on his tongue and brow,
these two stallions,
solid as Clydesdales,
in the river sending water
ten feet into the air,
clattering on shallow river rock,
one down river,
on up,
part the waters --
like Moses --
and emerge through reedy mud
reborn.

Trails

All those trails through all
those mountain passes
must lead somewhere.
I've been there,
looking for you.

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

I never stop walking.

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
straight hair
and I with my curling yellow-grey beard.

I've climbed up and sometimes down
looking for you.

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

Birthday Sonnet

I gift a notion rather than a thing:
May those whose lives depend beyond themselves
Soon learn enough of love to know to sing
Some silly songs of Giants and Bears and Elves:
May kids and cats and pups of every stripe
Learn full enough of love to take them through
Dark barren hours of artificial night
That they fall in and give beyond all due.
I'll save the larger wish: that they but know
Such learning pains as falls and scrapes and bumps
Until we learn to teach adults to grow
Beyond their lie: the world belongs to grownups.
Your birthday wish: what might be, can be --
Awareness of dreams builds reality.

Stars and Painted Floors

I ain't going nowhere necessarily,
but that's okay. I don't have much of a map
and I don't have solid plans on being back.

I expect to go dumb as an ignorant rocket
looking for life beyond the stars we see.
But, if I see a spot to stop
and sip a glass of Willamette Valley pinot noir
I'll be smart enough to park the length of meter time.
And I will damn well save my last dime.
Probably need it for toll at some pearly gate.
Someone might be waiting for me there.

I will not curl up in a wad in some corner
of this gorgeous, cruel, wonderful, terrible world.
That is not where you will find me. But,
I will not take to the dance floor alone.
I expect company, and more Yes than No.

Oh, and please, the better malt this time around.

No need to stampede toward unexpected bliss
just a stately bit of hugging and glowing,
a smile or more, an extra hug and fingers touching
and then we dance the damn paint from the floor.

Today's Walk 18 Feb 2020

Just listen and see.
Our Delta Pond trails are whispering Spring!
The gusty breezes still bite with last night's freeze
but our shorter trees are speckled white and pink
and our taller, older trees display swells of pea pod green.
We will have our shade before we enjoy our summer heat.

Imperfect Knowledge

I think I know myself . . .
imperfectly, but better than mom or dad.
I am an invention of an 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 who I was to a degree
not always recognizable even to you or me.
I think I don't know who I am.

There is a Poem

There is a poem somewhere
(or perhaps a bit of prose,
a speech, a still, a motion picture,
or just a wonderful gesture)
but almost certainly a poem
that expresses it with certainty.

Someone is aware, someone knows
but his/her conception
of the stance of a particular day
is weird,
not my own
and her/his satisfaction
(let me repeat
myself a thousand times)
is not nearly mine
though I know or almost understand
that he/she has reason to be satisfied.

A catfish dinner is not ready until it is properly fried
by the person standing at the stove.
That is a true heart poem.

Without Direction

Yes, this is a large 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 the breeze,
best a wafting, moving scent of coffee,
some hint of cinnamon, toasted sourdough.

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

I can easily end my day as I started it,
a simple figure in the distance, faint to many eyes,
I am stroked into the background along the Hudson.

In case it is accidentally erased

Let's slow down on the happy birthdays and congratulatory wedding anniversaries for just a bit . . . let's acknowledge the crap pit we're in that our government has not yet defined nor given us direction in any way as how to go forward . . . let's not play their clown game, that everybody's sane . . . if the present folks in charge can't go forward, we need to know and make decisions about tomorrow . . .

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.

A Distant Drummer

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

West Texas Dancing Ghost

I've danced enough to have gone around in 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.

Coronavirus Update Feb 26, 2020

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.

1918 genes

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

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

I am this; This I am

I think Carlos Fuentes said similar first:
It is neither the best nor the worst,
Just some sudden unquenchable thirst.

So who is knowing (something is or could be)?
I can see: I am this eye; this eye I am.
Sometimes blind, I don't give a glory damn.

I have no nose except a moment, a sorta hell;
I have no memory nor even dream of smell.
I may be following the wrong incense into hell.

Except that is much more than I accept:
I am a lost wriggling worm crossing concrete.
It is no chosen path, nor measurement based on math.

Tomorrow is just a swirl of sky we do not see.
Who cares? I care. It is always you and me.
I will find tomorrow at the fair: watch me.

Let us not look toward, nor tempt the cards.
Let us coast yesterday toward a morrow.
If we do our daily chores and whistle
and wake again and again in joy
we can finish the beginning of Fuentes' epistles.

You and I can find a direction forward.

Awakening

Black coffee before the yellow sun arises,
muddying my view with its variant colors.

Even with the yellow sun almost in my eye
I am defiant and glance toward the darker sky.

Black coffee allows a truer reality of the day
without wind tossing about nets of stray colors.

Oh, I love the ritual of the rising of the sun
but I am myself more totally without such swirls.

Let suns control their worlds;
so far they do not control me.
I drink black coffee.

A year ago, a moment, and just now

Sometimes it seems that choice
includes a bit of alternate stronger voice
beyond our recognized youthful pale.
Some new friend showing another trail?

Expect a choice of results from multiple paths,
yesterday, tomorrow, next week or just now.
The sun always rises with an appearance of solid truth,
a permanence, but maybe not thought thru.

Who can guess where we may decide to go
with the sun in splendor and the moon aglow?
So sigh, roll over, wink at the sky:
remember some tricks to try.

Let's just settle back into the yellow hammock,
wrap ourselves in our arms and count our luck.

I am this; This I am

I think Carlos Fuentes said similar first:
It is neither the best nor the worst,
Just some sudden unquenchable thirst.

So who is knowing (something is or could be)?
I can see: I am this eye; this eye I am.
Sometimes blind, I don't give a glory damn.

I have no nose except a moment, a sorta hell;
I have no memory nor even dream of smell.
I may be following the wrong incense into hell.

Except that is much more than I accept:
I am a lost wriggling worm crossing concrete.
It is no chosen path, nor measurement based on math.

Tomorrow is just a swirl of sky we do not see.
Who cares? I care. It is always you and me.
I will find tomorrow at the fair: watch me.

Let us not look toward, nor tempt the cards.
Let us coast yesterday toward a morrow.
If we do our daily chores and whistle
and wake again and again in joy
we can finish the beginning of Fuentes' epistles.

You and I can find a direction forward.