things she doesn’t ask...

are they things,
she doesn’t know to ask,
or
are they things
to which,
she does not want to know
the answers.

my not knowing the answer to this puzzle,
drives me to distraction, her Mona Lisa smile,
accompanied by her noncommittal “whatever,”
hiding the answer, nearly leads me over a blurting edge,
but for my inevitable retreat, for the true question,
has a  truer answer, that comes as well, 
in question form.  

Why do I,


or do I,

want to know?

i love poetry
unto
death or till
the watch
stops ticking

which ever comes

last.

when does the poem end?


creation is never ending,
the earth is endlessly morphing

but you lean back and say
enough
not because the poem
is finished,
for it is never finished,
because an exhalation feels
satisfying, releasing

but the poem never ends,
nor does the need to

exhale

not with the final .


the next poem is

but a

continuation

of the previous poem;

a continuation

of you~poem,

inhaling

and

exhaling

& morphing.

Sat Jan 7
7:57am

When life is good, I force myself to look,
for smaller miracles will go unseen
when I'm not led by Spirit's finger crooked.
When life is good, I force myself to look;
my poet's eye would sleep in shaded nook,
content with heaven, earth and all between.
When life is good, I force myself to look,
for smaller miracles will go unseen.

I fight best with words than fists.
23/9/2023