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routine

Some wake each morning,
With no sense of warning,
knowing the day will evolve
Just as yesterday,
No change in life's way
Scarcely  a problem to solve.
Yet they vibrate with potential
the driving force simple, mental
making each moment new,
Belying the stew
That is life's brew.
For others, this distillation is miasma
Painfully absent of drama.
We stare  at life without gain
baring silent pain.
Living without hope,
We, Sisyphus on the slope

the flower waltzes

I remember, now, so long ago,
an angel en pointe
her gaze over her shoulder
as part of the line she moves.
my breath stops...
an ache in my heart so palpable
that tears flow
so long ago
so long ago

acoustic abyss

For months I have lived in the depths
mostly alone, bereft.
music has no place here,
becoming random noise an acoustic veneer.
As a starved person forgets the taste of food,
my mood cannot hear,  only listen.
Yet instantly unaware, reminiscent,
A sonata, a song, a random melody
penetrates to the core of my body,
making me ring with pain and joy,
releasing the boy
from the tired old man.
There is no plan
to prepare for this
such pain-pleasure in my world is amiss.

Carole King

 She listens to her in the next room-
I drown in a flash back to my youth
simple and uncouth.
Unaware of future pain and the dawn of truth.
Loaded with unsatisfied testosterone I lived as hard as I felt.
Then time, recalcitrant hour glass,
stole from me at last.
Now I listen as she sings of a time gone and dead
as my ambition. I left only with dread
of a relentless future
attempting to suture
a life from the pieces 
before it all ceases.

the library

 I completely misunderstood.
she sat there, clip on sunglasses up
sunbonnet tilted.
she stared straight ahead
occasionally glancing over at the soft lounging chairs
all taken.
I thought she coveted one, waiting,
but each time someone left, she remained,
glancing around absently.
Then I knew:
she had nothing to do.
she just sat
waiting
for the day to pass-
so she might go home,sleep, another day gone at last.
until one morning, she no longer rises,

Poem

 For some, words, read ring from the page
or voice
resonating in empathetic overtones
of the soul.
For others, they are cacaphony
ruined runes that lie in heaps on a page
begging to be swept clear, erased.
 
It doesn't matter
 
mad poetic hatters
create because they must
just
because
the inner, small voice
not begging to be heard
finds comfort in words...

Empathy

 I have seen so much suffering-
My cruel heart breaks-
Coupled to my own, impotent anguish,
I cry, I blush
At this world's shame-
this eternity of pain
in which, I, we all must remain...
If there is hope...
it rests
in evanescent moments
of collective clarity of vision
of each other's pain and joy...
perhaps...
devolving-
We may recapture the tender uncertainty
of the ancient primate troop
hinged to the reality
that happiness lies in minion.

the Unveiling

A Jewish tradition:
We unveiled gramma's headstone today. A year after someone dies, a visit is paid to the cemetery to view the head stone and say memorial prayers:
 
A bluejay
having his way
peered into the  review mirror as our car sat:
we were walking back
from our sad tribute
he, in a blue feathered suit
looked superior in this place of the dead
bobbing his head
self-admiring ,  he  seemed odd
funny even to those under the sod
a bit of joy out of place

happenstance

Can two good things happen at once?
I may be a dunce,
but it always seems
that connected niceties happen only in dreams.
In the real world
the good and bad seem to whirl
together
as if on a tether.
Today, though
the fates gave me a bit of a show.
the "wow" is now
for this old guy!
I feel that I could fly.
I wonder when that other shoe
will hit the floor askew?