Mea mea, mea culpa!
I wish I were not such a dope-a. . .

the fault is mine,
lain in some crevice of my brain. . .
I can’t do what ten people say,
so I guess I will remain the same.”

Neurons fired,
connections made
+++++in proper space and time
keep heart abeat
+++++and digits wired
+++++muscles moving,
+++++joints in skeleton agrooving
+++++defying weighty gravity,
when forged
in proper space and time,

But those, though they’re
of the essence,
when seen in excess,
segue a lady
from average Jane
to genius, madness. . .

And to avert
and further self-inflict,
or other sort of inner crime,

I must find stones
+++++will serve for me to step on,
+++++to keep above the flowing waters
+++++and the steep and slippery chasms
+++++although along my chosen route
+++++they chose themselves to interpose,
+++++in such a way
+++++to warn me off.
+++++and deflate me
+++++to a state so low,
+++++in which I much prefer to stay
+++++just where I am
+++++rather than
+++++on bright and fresh adventures
+++++quite happily to go,

and maybe cultivate
some brand new skills
like scaling cliffs
or growing underwater gills,
so I can do all that it takes
to make that bold deep dive
or cliff-steep climb.

Or find an even better route
that gets me there one little stair
or careful step at a time,
rather than requiring me
at lightning speed
to do the devil’s wicked dare
of turning on a dime.

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Climb any mountain
or slowly pedal
and your legs
will wind you stroke by stroke
up any
gently sloping hill. . .

Perhaps not fit
to the degree
it’s easy yet to do it. . .

But recall
that what once were separate twines
somehow wove, with work and time,
into the clothes right now you wear
of handsome, sturdy twill.

Find whichever fountain that you must
to slake your thirst for will and fortitude. . .

for that’s so much more important
with each cork-screw twist, vicissitude
than your progression or possession
of any innate gift or practiced skill.

For, once you do,
you’re bound to see
that thing you’re near sure you cannot
you will be sure
you truly can
and will.

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Keep yourself upon a leash. . .

let it feel
much like a golden sash,
one that grows up
myriad woods
of giant trees,
which filter bright sun darker, denser
than does your own grown squinching prism
that skims and trims your eyelid rims
and splits to hues
between two rows
of sweet eyelash.

Keep some secrets in the cache. . .

let them be
sweet ones of love,
which will freely out one day,
when you will spread them ’round the globe
to make mark large, inimitable
bold stroked with glittery star-tipped wand,
waved with your true and personal panache.

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The charm and danger of a crystal ball.
What you would know could seize and hold thee in its thrall.

Adieu, good night,
let sleep’s strange dreams do better to illumine
heart mind and soul
in a way that steers you surer,

so much so,
you just might muster up strange powers
to lift you clear into the air,
swept up off your feet,
where you can soar in ecstacy
as you savor
the feeling
of the buoying wind and sunlit flavor
of your brand new
high and wondrous flight.

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‘Tis good and apt
to move and act
quite stiff and quick
on fair and proper warning,

but much more rich
to breathe fresh air,
in calm and patience full and thick,
where eyes and spirit
open up to wide awake,

as they anticipate
the gleaming crack
of new day’s copper dawning.

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September snowfall
up in mounts tall. . .
What a tease. . .

Check your calendars
and clocks–
there or here,
and you’ll see
we’re not quite yet to
the equinox,

nor to the start
of mad breeze whooshing,
nor the greatest rush
of blushing, browning,
and then, downing
of most autumn leaves.

Day by day,
we’ll take our slant-lit
fire-hued walks,
and smell dry fields
with gold dry grass
and stacks of hay,

and slowly we will come to see
what in the future’s writ
and how it’s spelt,

but not till
long past
the sad sweet fated second
when the last of these
first icy flakes does melt.

Eventually, we’ll come to see
if winter will
to us and to these parts
be unpitying vicious
or merciful and kind. . .

for the present here and now,
wonder though we will
with curiosity,
those secrets are beyond
the reaches
of our human hearts and mind.

But we can still find
dreams and magic
in the shine
in this first dusting
of sparkling white snowfall

Posted in Autumn, Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Seasons, Uncategorized, Winter | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


Hands together. . .

Yours to mine,

Mine to mine,

Yours to yours. . .

We touch our hands
in twos, in threes,
in little groups,
in crowds,
in scores. . .

we breathe
we drink the water

caress of life-breath air,

we feel the resting place
and time
of shade
and dark. . .

We rise with day,
we soak, absorb
with skin,
with eyes,
the wholesome light
of any kind,

from the modest lights
we’ve made
with copper wires,
with oil,
with wicks,
or wood-twirled,
blister making
tinder spark taking,

as well as lights
born of
a greater Mind,
as are the stars and moon and sun,
even in
times of eclipse,
still so brightly shine
their awesome power
can well render
the nosy and uncareful eyes
of anyone
quite sadly blind,
a fate quite stark.

We learn respect
of how such great power
and our life
amid each other
by necessity
do intersect.

We feel together,
and thus, we know
we’ll sail
far more far,
once we can see,
even in times
free of flood
and all sort of

and we relax
in true profundity
into what once had been
our very wary meeting eyes
and handshake touch,

and the act
of doing such
does steer us
toward rock solid
amity and sanity,

which renders us
as clearly free
in as much as
we are bound
to travel all
in this one ark.

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