In the end, just three things matter: How well we have lived, How well we have loved, How well we have learned to let go.
In the middle somewhere part-way through I search my soul for incompletes.
There is surely time left on some timer, but seconds tick fall down grain by grain-
I could fall with the grain as well.
There is consistency to ebbs and flows, there is a balance one could find
In following the pattern as it changes affects ignores feelings toward someother’s malcontentment
These cluttercare considerations-
I turn my focus pay no more mind, the tides are cycle turning and the sun also sets
To love and lose or not love at all, without passion only death. I could pace here back and forth in place or else could wander letting go
Prompt: Write a personal critique from the point of view of Shakespeare
Punctuation’s memory does not a poet make
Nor should rhyme scheme be gazed at waysided
Aside: Solace! The King’s Men she’d not partake!
But a play by rules, she’d mock: closed-minded…
If I could walk again among tomorrow men’s tomorrow!
Shudders down my selfsame spine lost hopes eternal…
But a line from my page, they’d surely grasp to borrow!
Remains Black Death longing, white flag ne’er to unfurl…
A rose is a rose, a modern poet, not so sweet
Reaching otherward for a way to stay same meaning
Rotten mouth betrayal, untongued for indefensible defeat!
Hope rising tides eternal as muttled language is careening
But alas! I have stayed and long since passed away
And she, for at most some longer, alive will stay
is is is and
was is was not
by an other name
but buy another
time not as sweet
a rhyming thought caught
tip of minds tongue
ing falling out
The squeak of plastic tape as it rewinds/The motion of bodies in fast backward review
Spit out follows swallow/Reshaken elseor stirred
Otherself unfrozen/Otherelse reready
Hitting play again always/To begin again all ways.
There isn’t enough time
all at once,
I suppose I’ll try to
day to day
Typewritten words on a crumbled page
There is static as a record starts to turn
Wood grains painted appear, are not
Fingerprint texture of unfinished wood
Warmth is the color of cool tea
Smoke swirl-disperses in a still room
Brick by brick built turns to ruins
Rust as nature takes back space
Unswept leaves and snow in paving
Cracks and crunches underfoot
The temperature gives breathing room
Inhale, I stretch my lungs
The scent of dryer-warmed linens
A pulse presses skin against skin
Repeated notes twice more than thought
One time before became too much
Blowing eyelashes from fingertips
We watch all as it changes
There are sounds of movement and an opening door and then eye contact and then I watch as you press the corners of your mouth together not like a smile but like the beginning of a forced smile –
like the beginning of the forced smile that is a mix of annoyance and this-isn’t-my-choosing on the face of a stranger trying to scoot by a second stranger in the too-narrow space between rows of seats on the way to an airplane restroom in the air somewhere above and between home and another business trip.
I wonder is this is personal, and about the expression on my own face, which I think is one of perplexity or contemplation or perhaps both or neither, but changing now to respond to:
an actual smile. No longer reacting, but recognizing, feeling something more familiar.