<6:30 AM.  Sun May 28 2023>

An internal clock stirs within,
a full fledged conscious conscience rings in,
like a silent alarm at a bank being robbed.

Various devices inform, each with a
different measurement cup/stick, that I,
have slept exactly seven hours which,
pleases, as I am queried,

How do you feel?

Fully refreshed!

my choice today,
most apropos,
for now awake, I begin to:

compose myself.

In the ordinary, is the where that
I have oft found poetry,
not to mention love and other good things,
walk the house, north to south, east to west,
under weakish, not really high in the sky,
sun rays break thru the tree cover and create
a checkerboard of light and dark patches
for children to play upon, if any were/where here.

All seemingly is well.
The rabbits beneath us,
are sleeping in,
because after all,
it is Sunday.

But I digress; composition implies order, form,
even malice aforethought, so as an artist,
knowing the world is yet extant,
and I, yet am in one piece(s),
make coffee for two,
humming an old tune of similar ilk,
re tea

But every human has some master,
and mine the machine!

Want coffee? Hah!
Empty the grounds!
Not enough.
Now, Refill the Tank!
What! More?
Fill the beans!

Suffice! Relent!
I am human, you machine, and I demand coffee.

At last, the impolite machine, that knows not ‘please’ nor
‘thank you,’ nary its native ‘your welcome’ in its native Swissie Deutsche (Keine Ursache!).  All very Swiss, and businesslike,
doth relent, making a very fine cup of coffee.

I shall not trouble you with various side trips,
that though common to all humankind, but
provoke two sister thoughts in quick succession.

A modified abbreviated prayer:

Dear Lord, Yo! You have brought me to
the beginning of a new day,. Thanks a lot!

I skip over this remainder part, my excuse?

Too many words!

(“As the world is renewed fresh and clean, so I ask You to renew my heart with Your strength and purpose. Forgive me the errors of yesterday and bless me to walk closer in Your way today.”)

The other thought, a reciprocal to my gratitude.

Why in hell do our bodies age, ache, snap & crackle, Buddy?
perhaps a revision of this policy is in order, Would it upset
some vast eternal plan if my body never tolled my years
in lines of degeneration, waves of visible and invisible erosion,
or at least make coffee a magical, healing restorative elixir?

Nope.  

The usual sneering silence of just be happy you’re alive
etc., etc., etc. and etc.

Don’t think I am asking for too much. just a little tinkering…

More to write, but I chastise myself with:

Too many words!

Leave off here, though my misadventures
and adventures too, yield up inspirational
hymns galore, and batches of familiar plaints,
that is my inalienable human right to express
to nobody else, in particular,

But you.

For in so many ways, we journey together
though our paths, locales, and courses are
so vastly different, in my mind, we are together,
in the here and now, and in the forever future,
we must continue to share and share alike,
our words….

For what virtue does the mind proceed,
To urge a soul towards war?
Disarm it with a dreadful deed
And poison what is pure?
What reason ever may transpire?
What wisdom be learned here?
By turning a saint into a liar
And rational to fear?
As we know no value of a gold;
That never leaves our hand,
And only when a dream is sold,
Do we ever understand.  
As we only see one shade of white
Until another shade's beside,
And think almost nothing of the light,
Until we wish to hide.
So let the thoughtful lessons be
More knowledge for the wise,
The mind will claim its victory
As the soul meets its demise.

Believe the monkey with the gun is not real reason to run.

Stand your ground,
and turn around, and cast a long shadow, as the sun goes down,

the life worth living lay still in the shade coming the other way,
as these rocks I live on glow a certain Baja rosy hue, impressive,
the way
peace remains, on rocks you return to often.

Choosing between long or short for the finale in the thousand
Dime Poems and Novel Mind Tuning Forks I have left here,
at this place in cyberspace where gifted witnesses of life,
appear to soar,
like eagles gathering to feast, while each leave a carcass,
some where, for late comers,
near the end. F' Art, art made by… I cannot imagine what,
could wish it otherwise, joy, empty or full, pulling in, or spewing
or spilling, all along the brim of our shared existance,

in these most interesting times, when no day is long enough,
and sleep is welcome, any time.

he had a dignified stillness
that communicated confidence
and an air of quiet dominance

but the truth he long denied
for despite his surface pride
he was panicked on the inside

so as he walked to work in the rain
he looked up, and a thought splashed into his brain:
"even the tallest, strongest buildings sway"
and that calmed his soul, at least for the day.