Silence or disinterest
But when you pick up rutabaga
They will start talking with you
A simple algorithm
Not common or sounds exotic
Words can break walls
Collaboration in times of war is dangerous
At other times can bring us peace
If given a day
A drop in one’s lifetime
A person can make another happy.
Sometime I am blinded of what I know
Prevents me from listening
At the end of the tunnel, I hope, is another way
And in the ocean, after I hoist a sail
The wind will pick up
And carry me to a wider reality.
I start putting words in my pocket
The birds start picking and scatter them
Some fall on front yards, others on the river
Fish snatch the floating words
The fishermen jump with surprise
People come out of their doors and greet me
I feel embarrassed, I answer with greetings
I’m thankful, their dogs like me
Tomorrow I will take a basketful of words to the Farmer’s Market
I will sit next to the mushroom grower
She tells stories about creatures in the forest
I will be a good listener.
The passage of time will come in your day
When the smallest thing , a little word here,
A little word there, can be enormous
Your mind will dance, sparks will fly
Enjoy, tiredness is nearby and watching
Pour a glass of cognac
Or a nap may suffice.
I’m looking at the white heron
stepping daintily on the muddy riverbank at low tide
I’m thinking what I want to write today
The thought escapes and now a fugitive
To search between coherence and acceptance,
silence is not easy, formlessness can’t remain.
The pendulum will swing back
carrying some words stitched together
one half haphazardly, the other half arranged like a quilt.
I’m between thoughts
being ahead or being behind has no meaning when one is not hurrying,
still, we want to reach the finish line.
Finding you and continue our dialogue
can be exhausting though you are buoyant
I want to share your optimism.
“Only the foolish and the dead alone
never change their opinions…
heavy clouds, impolite winds…”
some words are hard to translate,
so much meaning, feelings can hide
Can you cover church steeples with gold?
What happened to your umbrella?
note: I have a constant problem. I can’t write without reading.
scutters like autumn leaves
looking for words
under the boulders
from dry twigs
misty trees from spider webs
lonely words inside a secluded soul
flowing voicelessly in the river
How can I spin
the words into silk?
How can my imagination
seed the clouds
rain spilling in torrents
washing over the obelisks and memorials
first try and second chances
and try all over again?
note: Mrs. Abstract and I are driving through the rain on the way to Oregon.
I’m currently reading Ray Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles.