When you shift the vibe/
and frequency of one thing,/
more change is frequent.
OR
One frequency and /
vibe change may frequently shift/
many other thing, too.
When you shift the vibe/
and frequency of one thing,/
more change is frequent.
OR
One frequency and /
vibe change may frequently shift/
many other thing, too.
When you ask if I’m/
“fully vaccinated”, that/
breaks privacy laws.*
OR
that’s/
none of your business!
When your quest is to
help folks see and create more,
you must do that, write?
That same Sun that shines /
south of the Mason-Dixon/
warms Wisconsin lakes.
“It is not good for/
man to be alone” can mean/
for the short term, too.
Visit liberal/
relatives. Watch media/
fawn o’er Biden. Gag.
When you live on a/
Wisconsin lake, you can watch/
Spring creeping t’ward you.
If we think people/
are throwing us under the /
bus, we should ask them.
I hear.
I feel.
I see.
I’ve gone quiet.
Ah, Marianne!
Ah, Trish!
Muses of the bench!
What moments I had
with you
(and Paul, and all)
in that small cafe.
Not for the discounted
pastries (past 9 p.m.)
came I,
but for the fuel
that filled me
from words tumbling
and singing
and screaming
from hearts
and souls
and minds.
How many
napkins
ripped I apart,
furiously scratching
short verse
that vented my brain.
Now?
Now,
so far from that place
I can’t even remember
its name;
So removed
from the Enliten’d
creative muse
that once
lit my flame;
I struggle
to have a voice,
to say what I must,
what I should.
My woods,
rocks,
rills,
temple’d hills
sing loud
and sweetly to me,
as wrens call
each morning
and wind and owls and coyotes and I
howl
each evening.
And I can capture that all,
that peace.
There is no torment,
no pain,
as there was so often
there.
Yet, here,
there is something still
missing,
a driving force
that came from knowing
each week,
on one night,
I needed to stand up
on wood-plank’d floors,
to raise my voice
toward a black and silver orb,
to lift my hands,
to clear my mind,
to speak for myself.
Today
I dusted off my writings,
walked through decades
of thought,
broken hearts,
emotions plus and minus.
Today
I gathered observations,
some of my best wonderings
from wanderings.
Bemused,
I smiled and grimaced
at both the genius
and the foolish silliness
that my fingers
had pounded or caressed
out of a dozen keyboards.
Mostly,
I question
not what I wrote,
nor that I wrote,
but what happened?
Why have I —
my fingers,
my mind,
my soul,
my heart —
gone
cold and silent?
This question perplexes me,
yet does not need to be answered.
The why
is not as important
as the turning from it,
the change,
the regeneration
of the creative flame.
The moving on.
The how?
I’m doing it now.