and bent
and bent
in pain,
despair. . .

And very nearly

The time is given
but, knowing not how good
nor how much,
it feels more lent,
like an expiring
subway token.

The dreamers. . .
Wonders may they craft
in pencil, pen,
or maybe streamers,
or nails and solid wood,
but not “producing”
good or gooda,
like others
who look may
to many
look worthier and more driven,

And though there’s
cold and dark and chill,
somehow these dreamers persevere
as though
there still were hope somewhere,
a dawn
of brightness yet unseen
that, over some horizon wide,
through the one-starred morning dark
one day
shall be broken.

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make me a
me. . .

I seem already here,
but I don’t grow
as simply as a tree.

Some say I must act;
some say,
learn to just be. . .

Is there some
that I feel and see here?
Is it good?
Will it last?
(Knock on wood).

What are my prospects,
my figures, my facts?
Are they okay?
Or is there some sort
of dire need
to redact?

Am I here just for free,
or am I bound
to some sort of pact?

How long (and how)
will I stay?

Will I decay,
disappoint and regret,
and look back
on my slippery self
with dismay?

Or will I pass through
and on
with a smile on my face
and the core
of my powerful essence

All that
is enough food for thought
for my day. . .

and I’d wager,
if I chew on it well,
I will come to see
that its value will weigh
oh so much more
than any possible

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a little fun–

Snows and rain,
a climbing drive
through mountain forests
beside a swelling
gleaming, speeding
river stream,

At top of which
to debark at last,
at shore quite smooth and round and plumb,
to change one kind
of car
for quite another one,

a box that you
can stride inside,
which swings along a string
that pulls you up
way high, so high
towards the sky,
a moving perch from which
to marvel at the spectacle–

the giant azure lake,
whence the water
of the cold, cold river
had oh so quickly, newly come.

Once at the top,
the swiftness
and the crispness,
feeling steps above the norm,
for me,
and for
the air and earth and gullies,
poking vegetation,
in their unveiling
where the wash of sun
and rain
begin allegro tempo
fast away to whittle
the layers multitudinous
of heaped up banks of snow,

most thickened in the month
when each year’s snow banks
are on notice
it is the start
of their usually gradual end,
the time when slowly,
layer by layer–
they have no choice but go–
they make their exit,
and melt into
the pull
of mountain rivers’ downward flow.

The wakening bodies
+++++of overwinter chilling
+++++beasts and birds and bees–
+++++yea, everything that moves
+++++and breathes
+++++or grows and greens
delight in warmth
that lets them do their active thing. . .

But still,
remains there
some of them
who mourn
the loss of still and cold and quiet
that drove them safely
down inside,
in the special peace of dark,
their very nature
could be, in season, new discovered,
along with fresh ideas and plans
that, in dim days and starry nights
apace in plenty formed.

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and twisted arm,
sliced down the the throat,
wisdom yanked,
and chilled
in deeper, deepest places
that should have stayed
secure and vital,
toasty warm.

by rank pulled rank,
so many battles of will,
creepy traces
that perpetuated
the sense of outer
and inner storm.

Uncanny intelligence
and love
and heart
and guts
and strength
lain dormant,
hidden from the most surreptitious
of informants,
so long,
they were by none
still yet awaited,
so long past
the last moment
of possible survival
with breath bated–

But still,
re-grouped they re-emerge
to rise
past any reasoned sort of window norm,
up to the light,
more than restored,
but reborn as something new,
quite brilliantly and joyfully,
from head to toe,
and even more,
into some brand new form and spirit

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Life can be so good,
when you
let go
all of the ways
you know it can be bad.

There was,
after all,
ages ago,
the first soul
who ever sang,
a certain kind of silence
forever out to phase,

to help get past
all of the many things
she found so frightening
or outrageous,
or, which made her
deeply, truly sad.

Back then,
a new age rang,
and the brightest possibilities,
at last,
could dawn,

rising out
of all those ashes
of the things
so many people
firmly thought
had to be wrong,

which opened wide
so very many
happy eyes,
which were finally taught
how to look and see
and feel and learn and be
the sum of everything
that made them satisfied
and glad.

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The strength is there.

You’ve no idea
where it lives in you,
but when it comes out,
of its often hidden presence,
you get so
happily and undeniably

Where comes it from?
you can worry
on this query,
or argue
and wait for deliberation
of the jury,
if you like,
but still be none the wiser
if you should brave
the longest journey
all the way from here
to kingdom come.

You notice
that the strength you feel
makes such good showing
while tapping in
to your sub-
and semi-conscious
inner knowing. . .

You want that it
shows up
more often. . .
and yes,
the effort of consistent practice
helps this happen. . .

But part of the practice,
for best results
usually includes
to soften. . .

And if the soft and hard
can coexist,

though your pursuit
becomes unyielding,
you’re determined
so much less
the life force flowing
to resist,

and at some point,
you get to where
you let your gripping
jaw and lips
open, gently, some slight bit,
and receive
life’s warm and wet
and ever-loving kiss.

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There is
the benefit of nature
the nature of the benefit.

Discerning these,
not being thrown by nomenclature,
until one learns to turn with ease
to choose those brand new, wobbly paths,
in constant searching
for a better fit
and niche,

(regardless of the traps and baits here),
in the struggle to survive
and thrive. . .

This is the way
a life form best can strive
within the Universe
to find
and understand
its deepest self,
which both expands and centers it.

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