December 25-Is it too early to start re-gifting ?
“This faulty light fitting at the front door with the dangerously flickering bulb looks rather festive. Who says I don’t do Christmas?”
― R.D. Ronald
Nope- no decorations up here yet. All still in the boxes in the attic. Need to plug them in and see what strands shorted out and didn’t make it this year. So here’s a few Poems I think still might light up- for terrible now.
Homecoming
Can you find any words left
for the long runway and this familiar foot rest.
All day miles melted past
and you were able to sit still silently propelled
just reading and taking notes.
Your big idea of time off.
Now before the last leg of the trip
you heel toe the legs put the sidewalk square
with an older eye.
Attesting to this as I walk in the door
overheard from the boys over the pool table,
“here comes the professor…..
wonder where his footnotes are tonight?”
So you take your place at the bar and
put out.
Always remembering, remembering
where you came from.
Attitude House- Greenport Christmas 98
Serial Visits
The whistle is the period
in this motion sentence.
Punctuating movement
calling cooling coffee steam
escaping gray minuet figure 8s
in a rocking cardboard tray.
Go ahead.
Spill it.
After all
how many years
have you been ending
your life sentence
in this paragraph.
Awareness unraveling
to some temporary core
where you define
your next visit as the
last lap of time and distance
measured increments
like rungs of a ladder.
That track bed ratio
of rhythm and ties.
How do they sing in their beds so ?
What is it with that whistle
that you still insist upon
that you hear so clearly
much less
ride off
into a sentence of movement.
Present future
Past period.
Take a deep breath
of the dark roads awash
in wire to wire rain.
Do you stop to heave a sigh here ?
In relief awash or gasp for air
15 hours after ignition.
Do we have your
arrested attention
yet ?
How can you hope to convey
this flight
this passage
A shadow’s dance
In lock step perpetuation.
What kind of ticket shall we call this then ?
Miracle, weary ritual
or merely picking
from the fabric of your reflections
a thread you wove
that called you by name incessantly.
Into a dream
from out of a dream.
Where you step
and step again
all over it.
On it.
Just past it
Inside you.
Greeting from Gridville -2004
Rubbereden 