Mostly

I write, mostly, as a way to move from before
to now:
a way to go from there to here.
There is gone; here is now.
Ok, that's all - that's why I write (mostly).

Sometimes I am too scattered to move
from place to place;
too present in now to move from then,
where I no longer am, to now where I never quite arrive
in one piece.

It is not a circle.
I do not go to where I've been.

Neither is it linear, but more like multiple
possible points on a map
with no single possible destination.

a question of pillows . . .

I've moved from pillows sewn in sleep bags to twin bed pillows stacked to the ceiling to pillows covering corners of double beds before reaching a majesty of space in queen size pillows, but only living into my 70's did I approach true majesty, the king size bed (though the pillows continued Queen). Should I strike forth for a pillow that reaches beyond this world into new horizons of other exploding worlds that fit the size of my continuing modesty and contentment of time?

It is clear to me . . .

that many Republicans (include Lindsay Graham) can tolerate festering sores on our communal efforts toward public grace and cooperation to satisfy certain objectives . . .

Some of us are still alive . . . and may keep attempting to write and guess about our circumstances . . . I expect to be there among that choir singing some possible tomorrows . . . the enlightenment is not over, we are still exploring passages forward even as we sometimes back-track to sullen yesterdays . . .

Stolid, really?

Or was it yesterday
that the blue Chevy raced by the house
full of laughing and funny noises
and I sat with thoughts, interrupted for sure, but somehow trivialized by the sheer,
apparant fun of exuberance . . .
how can one grow so stolid at such an early age?
or was I as ageless as I imagined . . .

Donald Trump, 2016 Messenger

That was no clumsy crow that Roethke saw flap from a wasted tree . . . that bird was a harbinger of all of our tomorrows . . . away from wasted yesterdays into the tomorrow of our nodding, dreaming yawns . . . closer and closer into our self-satisfaction of perfect lawns and pickled gardens . . . out of our mind's eye back behind the brain of being . . .

Near Florence

I like walking with the wind at my back . . . but better, almost every day, is to face the breeze, cheeks red with the contact of the icy fingers of early spring and my mind racing toward summer trails above the beaches of the coasts . . . planning some new way to combine carrots, potatoes and mushrooms into an accompaniment to the B♭ elegance of evening greys into reds of night . . .

Whistles & Toots . . .

's okay - blow your whistle . . . toot your horn . . . I'll dance to your tunes . . . catchy and full of verve . . . and when you call it a night and go home to your computer, instants meeting ages, I'll probably still be dancing - slow and easy swaying to rhythms of distant beaches and songs from the backyards of yesterday . . . I may miss you - I hope you may miss me more . . . but we will be fine - together or apart . . . dancing to the whistles and toots of our lives . . .

I wrote yesterday . . . and I write today - moment at a time . . . tomorrow, I do not guess, except to say, I will write another day . . .

I suppose that I write to show that I can talk on paper . . . lest some think that I've shrunk off to the netherworld to attempt a redemption of soul . . . Talking out loud sometimes is lost in the cacophony of companion conversation and sometimes is ignored because the cacophony of friends bury the words beneath another exposition . . . My friends are more and more quiet while I, with narrowing paper, continue the conversation . . .