In nature
I wonder how many streams
is too many streams
Excepting flood stage
what is the maximum
confluence
of streams
Because
we humans
are not smarter
than nature
and yet
we try to support
multiple inputs,
audio video sensual,
all at once
It is no wonder
our consciousness
shuts down
zones out
is washed away
Low pressure
in the atmosphere and in an indeterminate one of four tires
13 miles till empty
Critically low levels of battery life
The evidence amasses in the case against energy
A body at rest tends to stay at rest
in these days of the tail end of winter,
the cold strung out to a sparse thread of frost,
the wind a constant movement that won’t blow it away
Weak sun filters through a constant cast
Broken branches brittle and gray
join at intersecting angles
skeletal shapes the only thing of interest on the ground
And yet no where near alive
about your worst bout with whatever mental illness you’ve had
is you’ll put yourself back there
every. other. time. you struggle
forever.
Every time
you get oh so tired
or life’s bitter edge rubs sharp against you
or you just can’t crawl deep enough into the corner of the couch –
You will think,
here it comes again
it’s back
I’m falling down the rabbit hole once more.
And then, a flicker at the edge of your consciousness.
It’s midafternoon; you haven’t taken your meds
The sun hasn’t shone in days
A deep mood does not mean a depressive down swing.
But the feeling is so unsettlingly familiar
it sets off alarm bells
of a flame that once fueled an inferno
We imbue our mothering with the ghost of our other children
The empty embrace of the one we just sent away
causes us to cling ever tightly to the one in front of us
The overflowing vessel of a love we never got to pour
floods the existence of the next to come into being
It is never only about the child in question
Our actions are the answer to all
the worries
hopes
fears
attachments
neurosis and
emotional stability within us.
It is a web
we can only see
when the sun
alights
on the tips
of frozen blades
of grass
I see a couple through the plate glass windows of a social hall on the bottom level of a dorm. She is combing and braiding the hair at the back of his neck, her fingers working through a small section of it. Though their eyes don’t meet, they are connected by this intimate act And I want to cry For their bond and bonds broken, For the simple when things have gotten so complicated, For the trust inherent in the running of fingers through one’s hair – and the pain in knowing someone else is doing it
Measure distance covered in the length of a song
Imagine geographic area given the musicians to roam
Number songs down before destination done
Hit corner by time clock hits the next minute
Shave time off ETA
Not late until start time elapses
Envision window into where you are
Just how close, closer,
every inch, every minute, every mile
Pray for a well-played EP
comes to mind
from the white light
spilling down
onto my bed.
A canonical,
conical
shaft from above.
From its singular point of origin,
w i d e n i n g
to envelope me in its illumination.
Just sit
and
Be still.
Breathe in the light.
With tough, leathery skin,
it’s a wonder she moves without notice.
Yet she skulks and slithers
throughout the mind,
the soul,
the psyche
leaving a trail of bad decisions in the name of self-preservation
Seeking only comfort and survival
not peace or progress
After years of hiding in the shadows,
she is an expert at skirting around the edges,
dropping pebbles here,
rolling beads of water down there,
until they gather in a puddle,
pushing behind the eyes
pulsating in the inner ear
an ache in the chest
an unease in the soul
Don’t trust this,
she says.
Run the other way,
she says.
And if you won’t listen,
she whispers ways to sabotage
All so softly that you don’t even question that her voice isn’t your own.
W.B. Yeats speaks to the greatest wish of all writers – and eloquently so.
All the words I gather,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm darkened or starry bright
W.B. Yeats
London, January 1892
Coming home to porch lights beaming like a beacon,
a sign that someone inside loves me,
anticipates my return.
Blossoming across the porch,
filling that space,
highlighting the grain of empty adirondack chairs,
the shadow in the space between the slats.
Spilling over and through the tic tac toes of the windows,
imbuing the living room with a soft warm glow akin to Christmas candles.
The lines of the room the only thing standing out:
straight across the back of the sofa,
the vertical rungs of the rocking chair,
the vaulted grid over the glass of the wood stove
In this dim light,
this stark relief,
is the bones,
the foundation of what matters.
The lines of life in this place,
this home I fell in love with.
In the light of day, distraction drowns them out
But here, in the quiet of night, profound simplicity reigns.
Chopping Potatoes 