Easter Sunday on 4/20

Working at not doing any thing today

takes up most of my afternoon

Soon it’s time for my banjo lesson

I’d skip it in the spirit of this day of rest

except I’m behind on learning this song

I’d like to get solid in my budding repertoire

Earlier today I felt like there’s not enough time to get things done in. Lunchtime caught my attention. Then the dishes, and a trip to the compost. Phone rings – lives caught up on…in a flash, plans’re made for the first weekend in May.

I did water the gardens this late morning…a good dose for the striplings! Down to the roots! I saw the scattered grass seed sprouts that green rush over the ground freshly tilled and raked, mounded like a recent grave. Within the garden all week I watched the red stubble of lily of the valley busy spiking itself toward green and fragrant scent. Soon I’ll see the hostas’ slow spiral out of the thawed earth; as slow as all that’s perennial returns for another show, another good run. Any orchestration is unnecessary. Once the pattern’s set, the trigger tests the fuse and the great power unfolds at its own time worn pace.

All I have to do is keep the place clean, the gardens fertile, and myself happy. A good day for all that.

After the Red Moon

Spring falters mid-April with a cold morning

and a sheet of snow turned to ice covers

what was beginning to sprout after the crocus

came and went. The hyacinth wilts, stunted

 

Yet by noon the sun warms the ground

and no further alarms sound. The cold stays

but it’s above freezing. I’m back to toting the seed

trays back and forth from the sunshine

to night time warmth on the kitchen counters

 

When things occur in the sky

I look for the effects upon the earth, my own small

plot of land in this place I’ve lived for a long time

 

Some force tripped up Spring. Now Spring’s a gazelle

leaping long-legged leaps she leaps amazingly well

Write On! Right Arm! Farm Out!

 

As a character in my life story, I think it’s fair to ask, “What do I want?” What answers is not the must of post-modern revisionists’: “Show the soul-less soul, be textually self-conscious…”

 

By 1986 I am ex post contemporary, for sure, no adolescent “the brass ring I’ve been chasing…” crap here.  It is not that this is it, but that this is this: each passing hour, day, week – so familiar.

 

In these parts of five seasons, we’re in winter…at that point where spring sounds mythic – our lives forever cold in these frozen eons of boxes within circles within wheels within…

 

Sun rise. Sun set. Even in sleep the body aches, the mind breaks…

 

Sun rise. Sun set.

 

But I suppose there’s more I want…either to get or to do. I’m getting to do what lets me feel like I’m doing what I want to be doing.

 

Things change every moment – and just how long is a moment? What gets resolved remains unsolved: “poo tweet!”  (What was Vonnegut’s first name…oh yeah, Kurt! Yes, yes…”Make me young!”)

 

What is happiness? How do we get it? How do we keep it in a world of constant sorrow? Or have we really forgotten what is happening?

 

If it is interesting to me, and if I wish to share that beyond myself, then this writing is filled with that desire – one that’ll be long gone by the time you read this [A concept that I’ve mentioned before].

 

I want song and friends and health too! Hundreds of dollars each and every day, and good food and drink, and always a safe comfortable place to sleep to let the aches restore themselves, the mind to rest and dream without waking me until the sun rises through our hallway window.

 

Then up and at ‘em! Let’s see how we can do today even better

Ice Blue Music

Today’s better than forecast

A Palo Alto day, a good day

for a healthy walk outside

Good to have friends

who might out live you

Who’ll take your clothes

and wear them out

I don’t have time

to read how-to books

on writing. I’m

too busy writing

A chord is like a note

Sad, sad (on a cold, cold day)

In The Past Month

1.

Off the zombie diet I don’t eat anything with eyes

I still get horny, but not for your lies. Besides

what used to be offered is no longer on the menu

 

and that’s okay, I barely have time for breakfast

before the bosses say better take your lunch break

better finish up on time and be back on the job…

 

There’s a little stretch of land where I used to live

I drive by it every so often in the past few months

I do not see myself anymore though I do see through

 

that young kid’s eyes again for a few flashes,

flashes  of what beauty and wonder there had been

among what little of it remains – the hidden ponds

 

the curve of land to the left, shaded in falling sun

that spot still slanting its rays,

                                                proclaims primal rights

 

 

2.

Tonight the kids left after their holiday visit,

heading north for a New Year’s Eve party

 

mom and pop pick through the leftovers

fixing a plate with what still tastes good

 

Too eager for the year to be over

Can’t waste time celebrating till it is

 

And that definitely entails

                                    a good long night’s sleep


3.

Tomorrow marks one full year of retirement

During the short time of his visit, I asked my son

Do I seem more relaxed, happier,

 

healthier – and he said most def


4.

Discos don’t attract me any more – those sirens are dead

their wailing just hurts my over-played tin-drums ears

 

Silhouettes still catch my attention.

The female form probably the last bit of evidence

for the existence of god – at least in my mind set

 

 

5.

Seriously, the secret is that there is no secret

There is but mystery.  Magic is afoot

 

[The italicized references a Buffy Saint-Marie song: “God is alive. Magic is afoot”. The lyrics are attributed to Leonard Cohen]

 

We are here to become one and then something else

If at all.

 

                No body considers the real as real as it really is

 

The mainframes long ago burnt memes. Fractalized

loops running off the power supplied by batteries

bound to turn toxic (e.g., poisonous) in nine years

time.

The Naps of a Narcoleptic Cat

A rush whirls through the last of the leaves and some racket batters the house…it sounds like the wind is fixing to howl all night but in a couple of hours the clouds clear and the heat rising lifts the wind up and away.  Ah the drowsiness of Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2. My head drops slowly despite the quick pace of feet skittering down the hallway, an easing into sleep – deliberate and allowed by no authority but the play of sounds putting meaning back to work.

How does the young pianist find a piano on which to practice, a matter of circumstances, of privilege?  There’s a ferocity that is rarely let loose in Chopin, wasted in Paris with his heart on a horse back to Poland. A ferocity that eats one up inside, or else it seeps into the fingers changing the weight on the keys…often so softly that even silence has to listen.

The girls I dated in college thought I was rich until they visited my parents’ house and saw first-hand the middle-class ascending stuck in a low gear still trying to make it up the next hill, and they took their wigs and their booty elsewhere.

To nap, perchance to dream of a flush bird singing on its perch whilst looking in its mirror, ecstatic and distracted by its own song, an easy prey.

This is a perfect dream. Nothing can wake me from this perfect dream. Not even the smell of dinner…

Then Spotify shuffles to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. Boisterous. The cat stirs and stretches. One nap over as another just begins like that – the note held loud and long as the little voices reverberate and raise a shout that falls asleep as the music plays on into the night forgotten.  The horse with Chopin’s heart rides on, purring.

Optimism

 

I’ll be on my way back home

 

soon as I recollect

 

which direction lies home

 

 

Til’ then I’m on my own

 

looking for someone

 

who knew me when

 

 

Sad days in this town

 

Looking for some happy ones

 

to balance things out