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today

yesterday had its way
today will evolve
as the day dissolves,
uniquely,
if not meekly.
I hopefully say
and agnostically pray
that nothing I  do
will bring harm  to you-
We all live at the edge of sanity
with ever present nascent  calamity-
tip toeing on the egg shells of life
has never stopped the coming night
 
 

Morning

 the clouds lift
my soul sifts
through the recent agony
the lonely journey
that I took-me alone
without a place: no soul at home.
suddenly, there is a light
which ends the cold night
of the soul
I, again am whole.
Will I revisit this darkest of places
Devoid of love and human faces?
Even though i know I will,
There is the thrill
Of having past
Another test-
I've done my best!

37 years

I have seen so much of pain in the name of life
the rain of suffering that is borne into the night.
it is only with time that I have come to know
the mendacity of death; its final show.
the wind that blows now warm will turn cold-
we, all with chance, will grow old-
but only some souls will unfold
into the flowers of precious memory
that beloved will hold in incidental  revery 
and for a few there is the touch
of the sweetest hand, that means so much

Performance

I'm raw  muscle
rare
i jump through hoops
a lion?
tamed?
yet:
I pick the hoop
I pick the leap
and often:
Whether anything jumps
 
 

Walker

 I've watched him for years, twenty at least. He was my age now, then
He ran like a beast, Or a dying steam engine
With coarse harsh breath He seemed near death, But miles after I had stopped running,
I could hear him still puffing.
I would marvel that that ancient could manage such a course. Increasingly he developed a limp-
A hip replacement post gimp Made him a walker from that point on.
Still limping, daily he carries on,
rain or sun, cool or warm.

poise

never write when you are angry never argue irate-
circumspection reflects pedigree. Poise deflates
those who would put you in your place. satisfaction
rests in the retraction of the self from the arguement -
leave the bluster for those with less sense.
that said, keeping one's head
is less art than science -compelling a silence
at the core of one's being
freeing the essence
from the revenge pestilence.
in the end as one listens, one hears the beckoning,

evanescence

 it's stunning
really funny!
Mood is such an ethereal sense.
In a moment from a pit to a peak.
It isn't as if one seeks
such change.
so strange.
God bless those whose emotions seem to freeze
who move from instant to instant with ease.
Never in a panic
Never frantic
of the evanescence that surrounds us all.
Their reactions exact-
Inner thermometers in tact.
Yet...
There are nanoseconds
When my world
Beckons
I reckon
This, my lot,

tumbling

 We never see the fall
none of us, all.
We are attached:
matched-
Before we know
or feel the blow.
Try to do the math
that let you down the path
to be charmed,
disarmed.
smitten-
But:
Where is it written
that affection makes sense?
just feel the pain, then experience the wince!

The Vision

 The artist's life
is lonely beyond definition:
defying ambition
it is not a question of talent,
but of perspective-
whether from the highest point
or the most painful depth,
it is the vision
the mission
to see askance a world
that everyone, other, sees head on.
It is waiting for that moment of transcendence 
of escape
when a blinding view
of a world anew
sends one to heaven or hell,
but is never on the mean
being part of a scene unseen