I
you
they
life

the coming-together
the conversation
the collaboration
the agreement
the disputation
the collusion
the deadlock
the impasse
the engagement
the disengagement
the pleasure
the chagrin
the meaningful
the mundane
the inane

somehow, somewhere
in some season
comes the separation:
things fall apart-
the total dissolution
inevitably sets in

the music stops-
the orchestration
sadly ends

I look up at the ceiling fan
The brownish red wood of the five blades
Three bulbs shining down on me

It looks perfectly clean
Even kind of happy

Then I look at the other side of those blades
And I see dust
Grayness piling over eachother
On the other side of those blades
Is the silent suffering
Sometimes spilling over the edges
Though barely visible

If you don't look closely
You might have no idea
Plus, it doesn't really matter
It still fans you
And helps you feel good


Do you ever feel like the fan?
Or are you a person in this situation?
What do you notice?

This could be
the last poem I
ever write.
I hope not,
but it's possible.

If it were my
last poem,
what would I want
it to say?
Wow, not so easy.

Poetry has been a
loving wife, and I
will miss her on
all those sleepless
nights, when dreams
don't come.
Writing poems have
kept me in touch
with all the harsh
pain, and all the
sublime beauty.
Both are supreme
teachers.

Poetry has opened
my ears to the
sounds of the
earth, the whispered
rush of the creek
running over stones
and sticks.
The cries of my
children in the
night wanting
their mothers'
milk.

If this were
my
last poem, I would
want it to bring
some joy and be
a bit less sentimental.
Oh well,
guess I have to
write more.