tryingpoetry

Interpret however you want

Four lbs and fit in one hand and on my mind NO In my mind like mycelium on a forrest floor.

Flushing like mushrooms with the seasons or rain or trauma or joy

She left home but my mind still leaves room for her and what is left and still

Like a tree that thinks the fungus is still there that makes strange gloaming melancholies and whispers

She is still on my mind, in my heart and my soul. The pieces I gave her freely are gone.

I'm detached armor, shield and sword on a rack at home if she decides she needs them

But the rust is coming because she doesn't

Protector with no root.

Fast wisdom and a slow body never made me mad before.

But now I am

The wind in the city has so many names

No portent of the weather No kiss of far off trees

It has addresses and shorter lifespans

Brought about by smaller changes manmade and unexpected

The 4th ave breeze from rush hour The Broadway gusts bourn of channeled winds

Whistling in the subways and trees and tunnels

But the four Wild Winds old as time Named for the turn of the earth Children of the Rising and Setting sun Great siblings of the seas Patient carvers of mountains and sometimes angry rotations. Constant their fickle Their children the clouds in tow or behind

Sailors and Fishermen know them Mountain climbers know them

The people of the city know them but most by their children and grand children and their doppler echos

Like the broadway gusts flitting to and fro without stopping at the whim of...

The Four know the children of the earth As Gods almost eternal paying heed to the times With reckless abandon Girdling mother earth pole to equator

The Cascade foothills Stretch out like Spring walking from winter

Over wet fields Soon to be filled Cold mornings still with frost

Morning eyes and long sinew Yawn the evening sun Exhale the clouds

then she looks around for her book and her dog

rolls on her side and waits for coffee and the sound of feet on the stairs

her eyes the grey blue of a foggy morning her humor as clear and bright when the sun burns the clouds off

comfort and hope mixed with the challenge

to weed the garden, ready the year and laugh

The End

“Why do people die?” she asked...

“So that there can be kids.” I said....

Muddy Water

Muddy water washed it clean with the moss and algae soaked woods

The clouds threatened rain the water cold biting my skin

And before the GLOM of requirement

In the eve of change known and the maybe of change unknown The thoughts cacophanous dull-witted drone

The cold muddy water washed it off

And fall is coming

The Old Man

November 17, 2017 On the Train

I miss the Old Man Template and spring Laughter and Work and cigars and Love Remembering always how he started I ache to know what he held that's being lost

Himself

Life is too short to work with people who don't recognize it The people who live to work and let their lives pass them by

There are only so many years left Those years are mine Nobody elses I choose Where I am

I love fishing hard Through hours Starting early To see a whole tide The casting into the wind The two foot chop The hard won fish

Today none came to hand but I saw a wall of fog come over me with the wind And the mountains across the bay only showed themselves once the water had passed

The bite was sparse and cautious Except the one who bit my lure clean off And the second one who took the shiny shrimp

Walking back uphill, a mile or more With a good friend to drive home with And the promise of a warm shower

I love the overcast days The grey of the sky and the grey of the sound The beds of oysters Cobbly stones

Trees in the water Bowing to their fate And washing out past the current like a river against the shore

The jingle of a dog's collar The wet of my jacket My fingers pruning up My hat's brim blowing around

Then the slack came and the waves were lessened and there was one last bite before we were done

Windburnt and sore The body feels the tired deep into the bones The heat coming back from the shower The heavy sleepiness comes with the warm air

The memory stays The green mountains The tall firs The Kingfisher's chatter The incoming tide

Until the dreams come....

title: Working Hard

date: February 6, 2014

Soul sucking work doesn't come from working hard. It comes from working hard without hope of an end. Not an end to work. An end to arrive at.

Work is journey worship pilgrimage and the pilgrim doesn't always know what they will truly learn until the journey has come to an end.

And learning can be hard...

title: Sleep

date: January 21st, 2014

I would sleep for our country in the olympics and not just for the extra nap.

I would do it for for our country's glory eschewing a sleeping cap.

I know my mind when it's had sleep its edge sharp and bright

until I cut into my stress then I want again to sleep at night