I write for people awake.
I don’t have to yell.
Some of our herd:
I see their eyes flash;
they know they don’t know,
but are not afraid.
More is heard than said.
The thread glows and goes and grows,
enough to hold and not let go.
Contact passes, but stays alive.
(glowing plankton: endthread.com)
I sat down this morning and wrote a long letter
to The Mother and The Father and my angel kin.
I tried not to whine, I tried not to whimper
I just need some help with the straits I’m in.
The weak in me wants to hide in the covers,
the strong in me wants to fuss and rage,
the wise in me wants neither nor the other,
I just need escape from this corporate age.
I closed my eyes and sealed up the letter,
the stamp I used was a hope and prayer.
Standing in the sun I began to feel better,
my mind took a breath and my heart did care.
The answer came in a pool of water,
a shadow ‘neath the bank where the salmon are.
An angel singin’ tells me I oughta
let the wise man go, just play the guitar.
“Don’t worry ‘bout the time, don’t worry ‘bout the money,
the instrument lives just let it feel.
The love in you will flow like honey
Give yourself up to the wood and steel.”
Give yourself up,
give yourself up,
give yourself up
to the wood and steel.
Yep. This is me a long time ago. To hear Wood and Steel, click here:
I am a hiccup in some quantum
field where there may or may not
be a dream-threshing tractor.
Imagination can travel
faster than the speed of light.
When you outrun light it is very dark.
These things are obvious.
My interest follows what I cannot see.
Trying to remember where I’ve been
is endlessly entertaining and frustrating.
Perhaps humor is faster than light, as well.
When the absence of light is darkness,
I want to balance in the absence of darkness.
I have no name for that place,
but its map glows in my heart.
(tractor: oldoregonphotos.com; dreamscape: rantlifestyle.com)
The skin on the back
of my head is warm and smooth.
I miss my hair there.
Gossamer threads run
from tree to leaf, leaf to ground.
Mornings are my time.
(top: neowin.net; bottom: forum.prisonplanet.com)
a flypaper walk all day.
Such is selling books.
Little junco, take
my heart and make it lighter.
You: a gift always.
Sitting on the bed is
like winning the lottery;
the pillows beckon and
the fetus I sometimes am
will curl and sigh.
The book at my bedside beckons,
also, with insight and grace.
The poet I am sighs.
Carefully, I place my glasses
on William Stafford’s name and
lie down on my side.
When the light is gone I see
that I am humble enough for this day.
(book cover: Greywolf Press; stack: jonathancreaghan.com)
There is nothing more
distracted than a tired
old truck driver lost.
Five Olympic rings;
one for each continent there?
Someone is missing.