in retrospective rear view perspective,
come to understand that we spend
every moment of our lives, reckoning,
determine the odds of which fork we
will take, laugh out loud, for each moment,
a poem  is titled, the resultant, a poem -
who needs a muse, you’ve got choices!

haven’t reckon’d that Earth
and I will be entwined/entombed
in each other’s arms, until such time,
one of us or both, will be reduced
to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems,
will be equally unimportant and irrelevant,
I reckon.

A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent, did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?

A dream, then god‘s interspersing jealous pleading indecipherable.

The  combinatorial explosion makes us into god-like humans,

when we grasp that simplicity is the greatest complexity,

the surges, the mastering urges, the blending melding gradations,

gods dream of our holy bodies encompassing, its said ingredients.


fly child!

the horizon line approaching, it’s either a goal or boundary, or both,

where endings blending make us immortal for a few minutes,

when the good Holy Ghost says, “me and we, ain’t no difference,”

hot fever, leads to raging calm, euphoria transition to believing,

where the god inroads, visibly interfere in invisible dreams, pixies pixelating fine granular,

dreaming my skin,  kin to prayering, my knees touching clouds,

lying on mounds of red soil, my eyes sewn shut and yet,

I see all perfectly, for the dream of god, is what we are...

~

7:15am
Jan. 31, the year of 2020 visionary

once again the fog draws me in,
speaking fog soft,
“of me, of me, you must,”
so write-birthing,
I am mustered out,
permissioned,
commissioned,
so ordered.

This fog is personal, in your face, changing by
masking/unmasking street and bay, slow burning,
this one, revealing a tableau, like a theater curtain
rising to audience applause for the set before them,
so unexpected, eye-delighting, pleasuring perspective.

why should you care? what matters this to you?

your fog likely little different, in the Cascades,
Everest, the California coastline morning burning off,
not costing anyone’s life, the Blue Ridges smoking meats,
the Quatse River saying, follow me to the Alaska glaciers,
(in the Midwest, some states, use rivers as boundaries,
so they like the fog to keep the ‘neighbors’ on the other side),
the twin Ghats, or mourning steam rising from the Ganges,
or the Zambales Mountains, guarding Manila Bay entrance,

all mine, here too, so slow retreating, gifting a quiet, wider
bay vista tween two islands, one Long, one sheltered.

so wrong, it matters so, none beyond compare!

these mountain or river comparison, white or gray,
listen friend, look closer, see my face, my words
fogging your soul’s view, full of carryover affection,
so deep, they borrow West Virginia coal miner~heroes
to dig it out, a different kind of mining,
but,
nonetheless,
mine.

so it is here, I see your multi-colored faces like
light flickers shedding clarity to these troubled times,
troubled waters, saying here we are, we are!

we here, outside your window, on waters calming,
see us dancing, but it’s so hard for me spot you in
the mists, for mine eyes are clouded, misted over too,
glasses fogged now, **** these **** tears.