I can see
The Moon; the one I cannot touch
Hangs above me,
As a reminder
Of who I want to be,
And who I am today.
Posts published in “Poems”
Walking in the warming Sun,
Having left the keyboard and
Cubicles, those open-air asylums,
For a bit; have my Transitions
Lenses, and feet on tracks to
Keep moving while my head spins.
Perfect view of a duck in rest,
Bill in breast and I’m jealous;
I keep trekking, hoping these
Steps taken before yield to me
Their nuances of life given to
Plain sight’s camouflaged peers.
And I miss so much,
Leaning into screen
Versus peering around.
We foolish billions.
While light-boned feather-heads fly,
We crawl, silently, leveling to rebuild
What was beyond our reach– still.
Grab those words
From the air–
Those words you
Know are there,
Though know not
How to take.
Just write– as
You breathe, just
Write.
I once wrote because
I had thoughts to jot;
Now, I write to leave
What needs be said.
When I was young,
I fell into the Current;
Flailing, throwing arms
As a young chimp does.
When I grew aware,
I saved thought for Now;
Living, losing sight
As a side-blind equine.
When I grew to stand,
I gave cause to Walk;
Restless, full-trotting
As a year-old lab in [a ]field.
When I stayed still,
I gained Root;
Knowing who I was and
Who I am,
As does any being
When tasked with
Continuing on.
Often,
When you’ve taken time to look,
Nature will dance for you
And only you,
As would a child,
Or a parent,
When you’ve taken time to look.
My office filing cabinet
Is indicative of a career.
The first of three drawers,
Topmost and slim,
Holds bandages; antacids;
Blank papers I know I
May, I’m sure, need later;
A 1/3rd used moleskine
Filled with orphaned pages;
Lens solution; unopened ink;
A box of 200 business cards
Minus 20; and a brushed
Keychain to commemorate
Those first five years. Oh,
And sunscreen used as lotion.
The next, deeper, larger,
Is weighted with business plans;
Merit increases; job offers;
A Panthers lamp, which cannot
Stay together; a wooden ship
From somewhere I haven’t been;
An hourglass from my loving wife,
Who wanted to ensure I never lost
QA points for time management;
And weeks-old nutri-grain bars.
The third, still deep, still large,
Keeps knickknacks, gained
Over time from bad investments;
A Bobcats playoffs towel;
And gifts from friends I heard,
More than saw, in Wilkesboro.
And now, for the fourth time
In four years, I am moving,
Knowing these items, their
Proximity, will be constant.
I’ve been putting off writing anything longer than a sentence or two for these last few months. I keep remembering Lost To The Abyss, and how many revisions there were, and how many times I read every word to fit or replace them until they seemed appropriate and effortless.
I took the effortlessness out of the end product and removed the effort from their production. I’m cheating myself (and you) by not bothering to clean up what needs to be said. I need to do better.
My wife said those words when we were dating: Do better.
They hit me every now and then, as though there’s a constantly running cycle in the back of my mind whose sole purpose is to remind me I can do better. I just fence the process into our relationship silo, rather than allowing it access to my entire life. Funny, our relationship is my entire life. Perhaps I have this backwards.
I want now. Before today, I needed to put word to paper or screen. Now, I want to do better.
I do not write details of my life, mostly because I’m not the only one in it, and partly because I’m a private person who enjoys putting my feelings and thoughts out for the world to see. Remember, access is not admission.
I miss writing for a purpose. Because I miss having a purpose. I am not a gifted writer, just prolific (if I am even prolific). Like Kobe, I keep taking shots because I know rhythm can only hide for so long and last so long; often, we have to trust repetition to not let us down.
We often baulk when someone’s number’s called,
Go missing in our thoughts when the number’s ours
We try forging time like a signature,
Hoping our gifts outweigh reality
As our faults give way to who we are
And living life becomes a tragedy.
Time allows us ample means to rewind to see
Who we could have been, but can we still live satisfied
With who we are and the opportunities
We forsake to be justified by selfish rites, not piety?
Don’t you know
There’s never been a
Single pharaoh
That’s lasted;
You have to prepare & plan
A lineage;
Don’t be forgotten,
Have your statues
Crumble into sand
While people forget
Why you got them.