composed on
5:34am Sun Feb 16 twenty twenty six
<><>
it strikes me
(and so does she, during her tempestuous dreams)
that we spawn poems from an internal egg sac,
and they feed on us, our guts, our glory, our
blood, indeed, every fluid internal, and though
they mature and bid us adieu, they stop by occasionally
to visit their birthplace, for a cuppa, the lay of the land,
it is then,
when, one can tinker with our progeny and their progeny,
brush their
hair, wet their face, tinker with a wordy phrase, add
a comma a kiss and a that or a this, sometimes a whole
face lift, by a word insertion, a typo sent to a
correctional facility for rehabilitation,
and yet, (my two fav words),
there is truly
little one can do, to redo remake implace new constraints,
our children, my sons, your daughters, once the prodigal
depart, they really have past the point of no return…
you can wet a thumb, scrub a dirt of dot, from their faces,
expressing love and attachment through the occasional
attouchment, un accessoire touchant, but the reality is
t h e r e a r e no
d o~o v e r s
you’ve stuck the landing or not; but even the fleeting glance
over the shoulder~long distance espying, is a spirit tenderizering
just like when she awakes, occasionally enquires, regarding
her dreams, and tell her of their collateral damage, she expresses
little remorse, but kisses the spots of her inflicted boo boos,
and never speaks of her dream again…
<nml>
Feb 15
Feb 15, 2026 at 5:42 AM UTC
composed on
5:34am Sun Feb 16 twenty twenty six
<><>
it strikes me
(and so does she, during her tempestuous dreams)
that we spawn poems from an internal egg sac,
and they feed on us, our guts, our glory, our
blood, indeed, every fluid internal, and though
they mature and bid us adieu, they stop by occasionally
to visit their birthplace, for a cuppa, the lay of the land,
it is then,
when, one can tinker with our progeny and their progeny,
brush their
hair, wet their face, tinker with a wordy phrase, add
a comma a kiss and a that or a this, sometimes a whole
face lift, by a word insertion, a typo sent to a
correctional facility for rehabilitation,
and yet, (my two fav words),
there is truly
little one can do, to redo remake implace new constraints,
our children, my sons, your daughters, once the prodigal
depart, they really have past the point of no return…
you can wet a thumb, scrub a dirt of dot, from their faces,
expressing love and attachment through the occasional
attouchment, un accessoire touchant, but the reality is
t h e r e a r e no
d o~o v e r s
you’ve stuck the landing or not; but even the fleeting glance
over the shoulder~long distance espying, is a spirit tenderizering
just like when she awakes, occasionally enquires, regarding
her dreams, and tell her of their collateral damage, she expresses
little remorse, but kisses the spots of her inflicted boo boos,
and never speaks of her dream again…
<nml>
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