awakened by internal clock, @4:00am,
as usual, my array of swimming ducks
moving methodically round&down
a mental mechanical water shoot, a channel,
pathed to move unceasingly from here, to nowhere,
and then returned by a grooved trough that cannot be scene,
for it reverts from the back channeled
recesses of my mind’s envisionings,
to the front of
travels, travails, paths and pathways, most interestingly,
all, together, now,
the water and words both flow on a river of deep pleasure,
for a poet from long ago, who’s words years ago dazzled,
gone dark, returns, resurrected from off to on the grid,
and I grin and bare it, a toothy smile from ear to ear,
Harlon Rivers
has returned, we can recall home the milk
containers with pics of Gone Missing Poets, and just
lean back and write on, in a spirit of an unusual (for me)
quiet
content meant to upon be giddy gliding…
5:10am
5/27/26
ah, an after thought
~~~
i read dead poets;
whitman, hafiz, plath,
from paperbacks on my night stand,
they lullaby to a quick relief of sweet sleep,
while deep in my cortex, they implant phraseological
sniffs and scents of future poetic exploratories that
need revivification, resurrection, and then to be just cherished for a prior excellence that is seeding small gems
of
smiling quiet of deep contentment unconfined