the beginning usually sucks:
unlearning truths
undoing selves
unending days
unwending paths
oh, good GOD.
that’s total crap.
you’re right.
then what?
self laughs at self
or cries
ceding the stage
ego averts
smiles in her eyes
moves down to find her seat
audience complete
enter wonder
stage left
then pirates
and magic
lowered on ancient ropes
by work-worn hands
open-mouthed
awe-struck
watching that fog blanket
move along the water
alive
and so remarkably well
alone
playing
under a Scooby Doo moon
rediscovering drift
wood remossing
the way
every moment wanting a coffee cup
every bloody thought taking a day
as audience
kind eyes fail to see
on purpose without purpose
playing along
letting go
until one with the show
wading through
clouds boots
sandy with thoughts
failing to
love loudly
yet quite often succeeding
in silencing oughts
in making space
and in stopping.
in breathing
with ocean lungs
in feeling a shiver
as a spider lands
on your friend’s arm
peering out eagle eyes
above beaked, shrieking noses
the slightest shifts in surface
hint at mysteries below
and also, just fish
dinner
at times unabashed
pirates lusty
for warm
wanton
words
spilling
like candy piñata rain
We’d rather eat lichens
than toil
in a story
of someone
else
‘s
making
might not seem a good living
but usually is
after All
a poet’s work
ain’t never dun
yet almost always
at the end
she’s clapping her hands
laughing along
utterly surrounded
by friends,
or crying, amazed
by the
breath-taking-ly
beautiful
pirates
who let
themselves
in
