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prising, slogging, digging



I try to write at night but mostly 
fall asleep before I can begin,
before I can achieve the proper
state of reverie, the space that
I crave to create, that I cannot 
seem to make the time or the 
energy for. But yes, the words 
whisper to me when I cannot 
catch them and slip away before
I can put them in their place,
before I can place them where
they will live and grow into more.



I put the parts of them in little boxes,
little bits of hair, a leaf dropped,
a bone perhaps, found in the soil,
slip them into a little book that I 
keep in my pocket to pull out
later, to try to form into something--
something more, something alive,
something that can find the light
to live when I can find the silence
that it needs to let it grow. My days
are far too noisy, my nights too short.



The soul trudges on, 
slogs through the mud of life with 
little time to dig.  

I offer these words to myself as 
a balm, a hand on the shoulder, 
a consolation in the true sense 
perhaps but without a prize to offer 
as I cannot prise the poems from their 
hidden places as often as I would like, 
as I feel I should, as I feel I need. 

The soul trudges on, 
slogs through the mud of life with 
little time to dig.  




A Medium-ish Circuit

Inspired by this piece, and for mlewisredford, whose quietly militant naïveté

is deeper

and higher

than words

or wires.

Why, yes, Ron,….

…there are still plenty of corner pubs in the old STL…

….and most of them are still pretty gritty.

(Please click on image for larger view)

The Ecstasy of Autumn

“To say anything—the mere effort alone—is a form of abandonment, an act of distortion. We can’t pin the world down in words, but there’s incredible pleasure in attempting to chart the slippage.”

—Joseph Massey

 

we slip

from being to saying

there is pleasure

in the tearing away

abandoning the seen

for the said

it’s the tension

between the two

between the too

many things