Admission of inconsequence

Every now then I think

that I should write about something

of more moment –

of passion or drama or tragedy.

But I can’t seem to see more than I see.

The color of red plums,

the taste of cold milk,

a light breeze on my forearm.

Oh, things do get bigger than this for me.

When I think of you, for example.

It takes but a heartbeat

and for me the earth moves,

but that hyperbole really won’t much do.

At most there might be a tremor in my eye, a tear.

I supposed that I have some difficulty

with telling the whole truth,

although my intent is usually in the right direction.

And drama and tragedy still lurk,

though others will describe things in their way.

I don’t believe that my passion is so small.

I only tend to speak of smaller things

and from my close perspective these things are all –

sometimes more – than I can take in.

So I will continue to look at what moves me.

I take to heart the old advice:

write about what you know.

Talk - Don't talk

Sometimes the universe seems to be speaking to you.

Sometimes it’s just the wind.

The leaves on the trees are only green,

catching air and slipping back and forth

against the sky blue sky.

My shoes are too short.

My toes are too long.

My eyes are heavy from lack of sleep.

A barista made me an omelet

with bacon and tomatoes and raw onion.

There was cheese, of course.

Words and questions and banter

filled the air at Aimee’s.

My butt grew tired,

I could hardly recall

if anything meaningful had been spoken.

But with a smile from a young woman,

I pulled the door.

The sun was hot.

The breeze was fresh.

Sometimes the universe has nothing to say,

but a look will carry you home.

Brilliant dream reflections

 

The astonishing image in my dream was something like when the angle is just right and the sunlight reflects off the ripples in the pond up into the shaded eaves of my house.

That dazzling dream image has never been seen anywhere outside my sleeping mind and it has now faded away - never, for all time, to be seen again.

For all of that, what I have on occasion glimpsed underneath my eaves will be seldom seen, even through my own awakened eyes.

Books make the man

These books are like old family photographs. They represent my heritage. 
The origin and development of my thoughts and beliefs are shelved here. 

These are less my ancestors,

but more like recent snapshots of people that I know.

And these are more like my current friends and acquaintances
waiting for me by my reading chair.

You can’t always tell a book by its cover, 

but the covers of my books will tell you a lot about who I am.

Click here for a Link to an essay on the books that have mattered to me. First posted on the 'Egg creme' blog site in December 2013. 

At some point I should make a poetry addendum - I'd start with T. S. Eliot - especially 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.' Here's a Youtube link - a little rough - of me reading an essay and the 'Prufrock' poem - about 18 minutes altogether.