I woke in the night
and thought of you.
No bleeding,
just this annoying scab,
itchy, tender.
I keep telling myself
I’ve cauterized
your place in my heart.
Category: poetry
Writing and Reading (Old Tech)
You are reading
this,
far away
from the time and place
where/when synapses
fired
their ballet
and I thought
a feeling
a rhythm
holding these words –
first sliding in black
ink
on a page,
waiting
for synapses
and time
and fingers
taping
green life
through electric connections to a screen
that holds
and releases
thoughts, words
reconstituted
regained
and printing up,
through black tape,
in a rhythm
of line and page
these words
which bend
and fold –
and, enveloped, travel
to be studied,
held,
approved.
A bored stranger submits
these words,
through the finger ballet, to the machine that prints
these words
for you
to read
now.
You Are Who You Are
You are who you are
because of
and despite
your mother.
You are who you are
because of
life’s surprises
and how you felt them.
You are who you are
because of
what you have grasped
and avoided.
You are who you are.
Coffeeshop Conversation
Air-conditioned coffee shop,
conversations bleeding into
silent tables,
voices speaking about conceptions
of God
or meditation
And addictions.
And relationships.
I want to interrupt
but don’t.
I wonder if I
arrived here
drawn
by those invisible connections
The Enlightenment
has denied me.
unprotected dreams
I have unprotected dreams
late at night
with strangers
searching through my metaphors
to find the weapons
I’ve buried
and attack.
Before the Alarm
In the morning, I run words in my head,
To see if they fit together,
To see if they flow.
Sometimes I reach for my keyboard.
Time
In youth we come through our bodies as explorers
Seeking and measuring
Astounded and disappointed
As we grow into ourselves.
In our long midlife, we travel our path
Forgetting and wandering
Sometimes grateful, mostly blindly seeking
The more we yearn for.
Now, our bodies re-astound us
Aching and refusing
Complaining and attacking
Reminding us of time.
Time
In youth we come through our bodies as explorers
Seeking and measuring
Astounded and disappointed
As we grow into ourselves.
In our long midlife, we travel our path
Forgetting and wandering
Sometimes grateful, mostly blindly seeking
The more we yearn for.
Now, our bodies re-astound us
Aching and refusing
Complaining and attacking
Reminding us of time.
Christmas Wrong
Christmas is a time of
difficulties and disappointments,
Santa failures
And other losses.
The dogs of hope
snap at the turkey bits
they’ve been whining for
and drop them, snarling.
Joys are seen
backwards in mirrors:
coloured lights on others’ houses
as I drive away.
And yet …
and yet in the darkness
some small light, hidden,
that I can hold
And nurture.
Questions
What does it mean
to love yourself –
other than the herky-jerky
I’m okay; I am okay; I am okay?
What does it mean
to be compassionate with yourself
other than accepting the lust for
more chocolate, more wine, and even the occasional secret
cigarette?
What does it mean; what does it mean?
Who am I
and why do I want
to know this?
What does it mean?
Learning Living 