I grab my pencil
everyday

Shaky hands
bring down the lead tip
barely touching the paper
in anticipation
of inspiration

Bombs explode outside  
clouding the sky

I call my muses
to work
but
they fail to clock in
because
the road between
the heart and the mind
has been
bombed

Dust was not enough.
So breath was added, warm, wild, willing.
Now every exhale shapes the world anew.
You are both sculptor and sculpture.

Inhale.
You are being made again.

Somehow, unbefuddled, it all ties together,
The happy endings get tied, knots well made,
Sleep comes easy, the light dims slowly, finely,
Clarity, everywhere, not for taking, just for asking,
Wanting is off limits, even inconceivable, and the poem.
Why, even the poem finishes itself, and to all a very, Good Night

a grownup lullaby

Savior or Savor


E.B. White

“If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning, torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”
<>

E.B.
you trap me tween savior and savor
and my plans well prescribed on a yellow pad
get ignored and the ignorant fool not cool

the poetry plane is my escape route
but that is now a locked door, saying goodbyes,
can neither save nor savor,
sorry have to return your world weary wise favor

frozen on a verse, a line too far for my composing,
but thanks for alliterating my stuck place

i place my head beside her thigh
as if to sleep in her warmth,
I say Twosday,
she says,what?

I repeat, Twosday,

Yes, she say, it is,
pausing to consider
and connect
my dots:

Ha, you’re writing a poem!

“head connected to my thigh bone,
drawing from within me,
the necessary ingredients to
inspire, perspire,-and respire
this agglomeration of the
in and out of your surroundings
contacting pulses”

I think, ah,
she’s got it,
but all I say and
state with definiteness,
by repeating,
and  breathing out

Toosday, Twosday!