<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….

take my pen.
write your own conclusion.

~

take my pen.
scribble your own miseries.

~

take my pen.
jot your own formalities.

~

take my pen.
scrawl your own elegy.

~

take my pen.
compose your own poetry.

~

take my pen
scribing is no use for me.

My fingers fly
  across the keys

trying to compose
  my thoughts to please

For you, my dear,
  my lovely Wife

The woman I chose
to call my Wife.

My heart is yours
to have and to hold

forever dear,
  as we grow old.

I Love You.

One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?

One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!

Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:  
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'

Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?

To write, or not to write
that is the question,
as I stand at pedestal of my oak desk.
The moments fine to take the plunge.

To scribe, or not to scribe
that is the question,
as deep breath grounds my poet's heart.
The moments grand for starting new.

To scrawl or not to scrawl,
that is the question,
as fantasies grow inside dreams.
The moment is lined with adventures.

To compose, oh to compose
is the answer,
as energies of heart leads on,
and manuscript-like boat floats gracefully.

Floats to be christened
inside waves for a lyrical birth.

Floats, to be christened
inside waves for a lyrical birth.

StarBG © 2017

I carry an umbrella again
and find gigs to play
when soon my adherent of veracity
does connect mood with a thread
here her snooty wish now verbosity
and fill nights with vicissitude
that can still cling to virtual attitude
with a quasar if I can compose near
as a constellation tout direct ties there
though multitudes from clouds of authenticity
and ridden with adversity only good as Columbus
while a homespun manicure of bliss
will stiffen stations with thine air
and stake canvass in this future sound.