through grayed streaks of white wet cumulus,
over unpretty rooftops of a metropolis,
study my windowed
winnowed airplane reflection,
imposed ‘pon a worldly-wowed perspective,

set task
before me to:
define
delist
analyze
in the very simplest terms:
the best of me,

~<>~

‘tis the littlest things,
the kindnesses,
the slight grazed touch of hand and lips,  
the recognition of thanks
genuinely tendered,
well received,
in the ilk of all these alike
minutatie

in all these, and
the summation thereof,
these gestures,
their accumulation
so mini-sized,
so great-empowering,
that they go nearly
unnoticed,
but I notice

and it makes feel holy,
nearest to my tiny embers
of godliness that within my
container,  my spark,
and nearer to thee,
and thine,
and our mutual
sparkling


nov 26 2024
@ 30,000 feet
AA #2039

It’s a cold winters day
Fall is leaving for the year
The sun is out against a bright blue sky
There are a few white clouds

Old man winter is knocking at the door

The wind is whipping through the trees at a frantic pace
The trees are almost bare
Grass has turned brown
Animals are seeking warmth

Old man winter is knocking at the door

The air is  crisp and tickles the nose
It’s bitter, and biting against the skin
There’s a dusting of snow scattered around
People are out dressed in winter coats and hats

Old man winter is knocking on the door once again

Not life
but you who are
the masterpiece:
the human spirit knows no bar

White lilies
closed casket
poor fellow
blew his gasket

I was the youngest of seven children with a docile, simple mother with no emotion who was obedient to my violent and sadistic father.

Suffice to say I was subjected to continual abuse.

I could not pronounce words which led to years of speech therapy.

The therapist seemed to get great delight in every meeting, forcing me to say " Six sizzling sausages frying in a pan" , which resulted in saliva running down my chin and extreme embarrassment.

She always laughed at this.

At age ten, I found myself confused and petrified as she rummaged inside my underwear with her eager hand.

I never went back.

I never told anyone.

I buried myself in books and wrote poetry.

Years later I collated some poems together and sent them to the British Poetry Society ( probably not the correct name).

To my delight I received a hand written letter from their president, giving advice and encouragement.

His name was Spike.

Spike Milligan.

Thank you sir.