One Moment (a flash poem)

(I usually edit, edit, edit, for months, but I'm trying some un-edited stuff)
(...ok...I added one comma...)
(but really, that's all I did)
(I swear)
(I think...) 

One Moment

there is no series
there are no clicks
no clicking moments
no moment when 
one moment 
becomes another
no segments of time
no striations in the stratum
no layering of one on top of another
no clickclickclicking of ticks or tocks
only one moment,
and unimaginably long
and impossibly short

The Night Heron

(for my dear friend, Jeremy Nathan Marks, a poet of mind-boggling talent, 
for whom this poem has been promised for far too long, though not so 
long perhaps as the lives of poems go...they are ancient things, even 
the young ones, and as Memory is my negative Muse, I can not recall 
exactly where or when this piece began, except that I know it began 
in one of the many enriching conversations I have had with this man.) 

The Night Heron

the night heron stands 
silent as the sea
refuses the sun.

shorebirds' shadows fall 
on deafness like lids.

the sun speaks and you 
see the stars.  the wind 
tells your stories in 
voices of the night.

you hear.  you listen.

you find your roots in 
the reaching branches 
beneath still waters.

broken reeds whistle
a hollow tune in 
the wind and chatter 
like bones in the breeze. 

a clap, and you fly, 
pulling long legs from 
the water dripping
behind you, lighter 
than any great blue,
heavier than light.

we search the sky for 
fish while our branches 
blow in air.  we stand 
knee-deep in wetness
while all the life, all 
the time, is right here.

this song sings itself 
in the sun.  undone things 
thunder as one while 
the elders look on 
mutely and mourn the 
lost morning of man.

this work will never 
be done.  this song can 
never be un-sung.


Well....looks like I blew it.

A high tea for 30 ladies on Wednesday afternoon, dinner for 160 today, plus the 
restaurant.  Just couldn't manage.  Not enough solid time for my usual 
omphaloskepsis (lovely little new favorite word...contemplating 
one's navel as an aid to meditation...a very vital part of my writing practice, 
I have discovered...)

We'll see if I can post up two later today?  Maybe that will sort of count as 
catching up.

My brain is swiss cheese.
All that I run on is fumes.
The words are buried.


I want that feeling.
I miss that feeling


I don't miss wanting that feeling
so much of the time


I don't want to miss that feeling

having so much of one's mind 
made up of the wanting 
and the waiting for that 
wanting to go away.

Yes, I do want it.
I want it so badly 
that I can not risk what 
having that could mean
what kind of lean 
that could lead to,

what kind of lean need 
that could mean
to me.

I have periods…

(no, really...)


"What the hell is this?!"

and times of 

"Ah, this and this go here and that goes there."

and many episodes of 

“Just a little off the top, a little snip here, a little trim at the back”

and times of

“More here, build this up and up, Yes! more there too, just a bit more in the middle”

interspersed with the odd (usually very odd) sequence of


and occasional (ok, fairly frequent) times of

“Would. You. Just. Get. The. Fuck. In. There. I. Swear. I. Know. You. Will. Fit. 
God. Damn. You. Fuck. ing. Words.!.!.!"