it’s Saturday,
and the fog
is starting to burn off,
exposing the part of the world
where I live
to the greater Universe.

Who is watching?

Do they
have something to say,
long, medium or terse,

about the big thing
that I do today?

Or is it of consequence
somewhere near,
in an ordered array,
the item
where tiny ants
of origin Argentinian
have left tiny trails
where out of their holes
they’ve been working
and marching.

In any case,
to be obsessed
with whatever, whomever,
wherever they may be,
may or may not be
putting me to the test,
is a state no more worth finishing
than it was to be starting.

I’d better
bend my ear
to the wild drum
that calls me,
the hunger
by which I am fed,
the water that
sails me
and quenches me,
according to my ability
and need,
wherever my own
and others’ throats
have been parching.

Sometimes there’s just living
that will have its sway,
that will rise me above
the fierce melee fray
that beckons toward death
from the suite of excess
of too-busy thinking,
the fingers frenetic
caught up with
sinisterly complex
over-crafting and arting.

Trying too hard
will not make the best–
not in beauty
nor reason
nor any of the rest. . .

A precept
I cannot so quickly
have the faith to accept–

So, I’ll try this to test:
I’ll switch intermittently
between action
and rest,

and see whether that route
doesn’t give me more traction
and more satisfaction,
that’s more apt to go far,
and feel good,
and long last.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Seasons, Summer, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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