Poems and Air-Fried Taters

I’ve come to the place this morning, 

the place we’re feeling is vitally important 

in meaning. The place just before where 

one thing gets converted into another. 

Like a word between languages.  The place 

just before where “feasgar math” becomes 

“good evening”.  The place where the notion 

to offer up the salutation is a feeling - a feeling 

of wishing to connect and bond.  Not the 

action itself of moving toward a one-ing of 

people.  The heavy place where there exists 

gossamer wisps of fragrant dreaming; and 

they are indistinguishably mingled among 

early morning sunrise and crusty eyelids 

being formed.  In that place, there be magic, 

and endless possibility.  Poems, and 

formulations live there. Waiting. That’s the 

place I’ve come to, and dammit, there I long to 

stay.  But alas, I’ve put the potatoes on to fry, 

and will have to settle for writing it out instead.

EVER ON AGAIN

 
I was wanting a stretch a land 

for settling down on, not for

forever, but just for a spell.

A generous space to spread

out some of my favorite ideas,

and words, images and sounds.

When prices grew too high, I 

looked beyond the usual fare.

To nooks and hidden hollers.

And then I found it.  Right here and 

right now inside my morning. A place 

so familiar; one I had overlooked.

I had needed to stop searching and

instead to start making.  The things I

longed for became things I now shaped.

Stillness.  Ample openness.  A touch of

fondness for what is.  A listening sense

of inquisitiveness.  A deep satisfaction.

There’s no regret for the time spent on

questing and exploration.  It is that hard

effort that multiplied my contentment.

The river of loving friendships and 

relations runs swiftly by the hills and 

knolls of tender kindnesses unearthed.

The dazzling awe and wonder of an

expansive vista are made more clear

in the presence of a simple silence.

The map for uncharted awareness and

unspoken exhilaration were on the back

of my impressions of this new day.

Here.  Here I will linger, until the gentle

breeze of clarity says it is time to go.

To go there, and there hope for a new clue.

Ever on.  Ever on.  Ever on, again.

Learning to Invite

The concentration of 

a poem is focused upon 

each word.  Its each and 

every place.  Here. Now.  

Listening for which words 

should come before and 

which should come after. 

Learning to invite some to 

stay and others to leave.

Poem is mine, ai generated poster.

LISTEN FOR ME

Listen for me just below the surface of 

the ground, below the face of the dirt.

Listen for me among the dry and almost barren trees of autumn as they let go.

I will be softly singing among the mycelia, and all around their fungi and their spores.

I will be the blow and rattle between the browning parched oak trees’ falling leaves.

I won’t be very far away, my fondness for the beauty of nature will keep me close.

I’ll be under every new greening piece of life, pushing itself up out of the soil.

I’ll be on the back of every piece of lice between the feathers of the croaking raven.

On molds, and newts.  In springs, and sand.  Aloft in zephyrs and tornadoes all.

Every quark and quasar will whisper my hope; each star and nebula my poems.

I will not escape beyond the beyond that has riveted my soul with wonder and awe.

I will have nowhere else to go, but everywhere.  Listen for me and look.

Chambers of Stillness

 And what is it

you will hear today

in the chamber of

your stillness?

What distant echo 

from the silence?

The warbler will

return atop the tree

just outside meeting.

The purple of the

bruised memory of

your fathers death on 

the road will arise.

The creak and the

pop of the drying 

of the church bench

will fill your ears. 

What is it you will

hear today in the

chamber of your

stillness?  Or, will you

choose not to sit and

away yourself within?

ON WRESTLING WITH ANATTA (No permanent self)

Spider walking through 

my morning, I collect the 

habits and the hobbies 

which help me construct 

a separate self - which 

apparently does not 

exist. A few mugs of 

Indian tea, the meds of 

morning, scrapple, and 

some time on the shitter.

Here I am. The self 

that does not exist.

That explains a lot.

I just want to know who 

smells the rain heavy in 

the air and feels the moisture 

on the humid wind of day?

Who tastes the dripping

tang of the apple or

slakes itself on the cold

draughts of spring water?

It is that one I have come

to love to be with, who

I have trusted to take me

into a living consumed by joy.

But yeah, he is not quite

who he used to be.

Audacious Light

I wonder at the shy light

of morning that sneaks out 

slowly from the edges of 

the darkness and the new day.

Like it is trying to hold back.

Light that so gently crawls

at first and then harshly

gallops itself upon the scene

in full and all out display.

Like there had been no night.

That first light and its crescendo

is what interests me at first rising.

It draws back the curtains on the

mystery of having one more day.

Like I might live forever.

That light.  That new light, even

wet with rain, is a hope for yet

another day.  Another day to conjure 

words into poems and live audaciously.  

Like that is all there is.