measuring the small pieces of daily endeavor,
the small bites of how I stay a survivor,
taking each moment and weighing its value,
upon the scale of my cupped hands,
living in ounce and grams,
deferring the pounding poundage of
what ails, haunts, curses us to an
existence of forever indebted dementia
in downsizing life to first cup morning coffee,
a passing sensation of another's hand grazing,
a message from a friend that brings tears and joy
so much that there is no distinguishing either,
this is is how I get thru the onerous calculations
of all that I fear.
in a small fist of
firsts and seconds,
I grasp and hold on
till the next one comes along,
my next handhold on the sheer cliff with no top,
that we are forced to conquer with our first waking breath
and I thank anyone who cares,
anyone who understands simply
these words, the small comfort therein,
when we acknowledge as we are loath to do,
that the permanent curses of our lives,
cannot ever be erased, nor put or washed away
but from a new flowering, a ciel blue
tapestry colored, happy tainted
withe pure white cumulus,
in the photo of my grandchildren entwining,
in my backyard garden in a city of concrete lines,
in overlooked surprises under the bed,
these are the amuse bouche, the little tastes,
the amusements upon our tongues
that give me just enough to hold on and wait,
welcoming the next one with even slower measuring
so that I can log just one more stitch of hope upon my skin,
a teaspoon of, an eighth of a cup extra,
of comfort, of the pleasures of existence
I think of long ago captures, old poems,
and write this and them down
free formed
as they come,
waiting not for any editor of life
to improve. upon them,
from and in their own cracked shell
I see and share,
the nut of value within
sometime I guess but do not upon it dwell,
that we will see each other once again,
and when in taking each other's current measurements,
measure ourselves not
against each other
but our growth within and
for each other
and now I sip my coffee and weep,
a grown man,
writing in the dark,
of loss, of love,
of lost sons,
of the
sun-rising
colors that demarcate dawn
as the time between,
between black nighttime bitterness
and the fresh yet to arrive, works in process
moments
that will uncover and soon tremble in their delight,
and say another day to come, another
moment
to measure and savor,
one more instant
in your mind that proved
you
can measure
up
~~~
6:42 am
Oct. 23, 2015,
by the early morning light
of a New York City palette
I write this for the poets and friends here who have
welcome trespassed upon my heart with
their sadnesses, joys, losses
and in their sharing,
make me measure better and desirous of
tomorrow