#muddle
fumbled with tittering fears
i woke early
opened in the red light room
my child’s room red by his voice
lit like emergency in a nuclear submarine
and submerged by an allegiance of dreams
open the curtain and it's tarnished cold
first cold autumn play of light bites back
that otherly world
pray mother take over
begin my day
and i'll drop
my unnecessary churn
Jan 4
Jan 4, 2026 at 8:40 PM UTC
muddle disarray
i'm busy giving falling snow
a pattern
Dec 19, 2025
Dec 19, 2025 at 10:01 AM UTC
those of us in the middle muddle,
do not know from sides, boundary lines,
drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning,
mean nothing to us, who seek something solid
upon to rest, when the clarity others profess,
more than evades us, even escapes us, and
the muddles of life seem to require simplest,
middling answers that are unacceptably refused
by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means
cause to cost others regardless, for regard for
the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts,
the know nothings, and the know betters
irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes
me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of
meandering through seems almost holy, for the
obstacles of society, requirements of modern life,
are so damning, wild expectations superimposed,
truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible,
so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the
whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with
only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in
general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving,
keep touching and when optimism returns,
I shall be relieved
once more,
I shall be released
once again,
good words will be caught,
released, returned back
into the atmosphere so
they will grow in size by
the very act of sharing
undated
————————————————-
*Everyone must leave something behind
when he dies, my grandfather said.
A child or a book or a painting or a house or
a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
It doesn't matter what you do, he said,* so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury
(Book: Fahrenheit 451)
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:14 AM UTC
When I'm old and gray, you may feed me with a spoon
like I was a child today dancing around the room
pretend you are a plane dropping food like bombs
or even a choo choo train going nom nom nom
sit down next to me and let's do a jigsaw puzzle
reassure me constantly when I get in a muddle
help me climb the stairs step by step
be the one who cares if I break my neck
tuck me into bed you can read me a story
tell me all the things you did until I am snoring
so when I'm old and gray you may feed me with a spoon
until then just smile and say,then will be too soon..
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 2:51 PM UTC
going down this long lost road
traveling under the waning moon
thinking upon memories of old
I feel my impending doom
we are pilgrims in the age of fire
we are gods.. truth we aspire
voyaging deserted corridors
painted in cast iron blood
a great spectacle of gore
like nothing you could think of
elaborate scheme between hunter and pray
scrambling the mind and left in disarray
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
I thrive upon it,
And yet, it thrives upon me;
Grey muddle of life.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC