the lovely picture window (always the same, always different)

There are painters who must,
having found the place, must,
repaint it, compelled to repeat it,
each a variant, yet always the same,
always different

I awake to a perspective that is wide,
always differentiated from the prior,
always almost similar, but never with
the same exactitude, differing attitude,
same longitude, identical latitude,
always different

horizon distanced, in all ways a view
encompassing, duality near, far distant,
harmoniously, eyes open, magnetized
to wake before 6am by the suns modesty,
first light, first clarity, a curtain risen, yet,
always different

am I so blessed or thus cursed, for the urge
to disclaim and ode, compose and thus self-
decompose, analyze, reflect, slice apart, needing
the comprehensive understanding this me/place
scripts the raw appreciation, daily differentiated
always the same

this peaceful venue seizures, chest calmly
pounding at the insistence it commands,
the price I must pay for the prize to praise,
to sing, weep, reward restful sleep with lyrics
eked out, pouring, unsustainable yet finished,
always different

a single May Iris, returns, born from a torrential,
thunder, lightning, sky mayhem, rises by a sundial
greets midst a planted clump, upright rises, lavender,
in a majestic solitary, absent but a day prior, yet mine eyes
failed to witness its discernible emerging birthing creation,
always different,
always the same

here, I am Iris too, always the same, a day aged,
but the differences minute but stolid actualized,
this overnight sensation, my body’s restoration,
what I visualize, indivisible, now visible, realized,
miracle of continuity, unchanging chained change,
always different ,
always the same

wonder, am I more blessed, or a s~lightly cursed being,
my breath restored, wet eyes full brimming, changed,
revived but always modified, a newer old man, whose
sum total always a different number, but in sequential,
compelled to confess, no understanding of this miracle,
always the same,
always different,
this daily visionary miracle


6:36 AM
Fri May 24
2024

Silver Beach,
Shelter Island

When it’s my turn to be reaped
- as I know it someday will be
- let my final, earthly verse be poetry.
Let the vast heavens weep,
may my wake not be cheap,
and peace be upon my coterie.

(Title taken from Sara Etgen-Baker)

In this little island before my house
I hear not a sound not even a mouse
muted trees of valor stand still in grace
I think I almost won the race

Tracks of history live here on this island
I recall the day you took me by the hand
nearer to forever I feel so content
no leaf is stirring inside this tent

A silent symphony plays on in my head
needling my heart like pliable soft thread    
In this little island before my house,
I hear not a sound not even a mouse.

fruit of labour often unseen
but faith in loves solicitude
guarantees it is not in vain.

someone once told me
you never forget your first love
you always love them
maybe in some strange twisted way
your brain forgetting
all the pain they caused
you love them
and i think they were right
because in a way
i love you
and i think i always will
for some nonsensical reason
i will never see the world
the same because of you
and sometimes i wish
i could change that
erase you from my thoughts
as you distort them
with your unwavering power
but then i remember
i wouldn’t want it any other way
you have shaped me
into the person i am today
and because of that
and i wouldn’t change a thing

- i'll never forget you

Can you heal my
insomnia? Raise the bar
and eat your words.

You have stopped
singing. Take me moon I
am getting very hot.

Why people are dying
without blood? Someone
was sending the message?