for those in peril on the sea
plays each morning steadily.
fingers tap the sounds, the words,
little ideas readily. wore rags,
ate off broken plates before
it was screened.
yet i bet this is not a first,
not really our idea.
so we keep on mending, making, pray
for those at sea.
started with magic furry frost , clearing cars
to get to work. early
the planes came over sideways,
lights shining, we stood and watched them fly.
it was all over face book, some complaining
of the noise, some like me, stood in wonder,
a day of lumps, that fell to nothing,
so in gladness we lazed the frozen day
indoors, logs running low from christmas blazes.
it were a cold day yesterday. let it go.
on cleaning, finding moth.
although expired gently, lift
and place in box with the
on old ribbon, slightly frayed,
wind, pin, keep for another day.
for work, for photographs.
on words, collect, retain the simple
ones, that do not confound,
hand write into paper
on living. make notes.
we have a clean white bed, slept late,
a shock to break the ritual. a treat
on a major scale. probably ten.
i think i may like to travel to small places,
old and full of history. deep aged fabrics
stained with the words of time. to touch.
feel the textures, the threads, know that when
all things are sad, there is a happiness to be
found, in these places.
in the ribbon she gave me, in the thoughts,
the gestures from friends, their aknowledgement
of who i am.
. it has been a happy time.
frightful, in snow or heavy rain,
dark the days are, the evenings darker.
forecasts bring gloom and panic, then are cancelled
minutes later, the phone kicks off.
ice is predicted, mountains white
and jesus is reborn up the valley.
now there is a story, meanwhile
arriving home to candlelight, fire the same
and hopefully all will be well a while.
the word count is 62, the years are 8,
and i dreamed it was 2 months ; longer
than all the other numbers.
i have been a long time coming home.
wish i wrote dark, about deep insecurities,
a struggling childhood, i wish i wrote
like others with words of wonderfull
syllables, bells ringing,
wish i wrote long tomes, to bore myself
rigid. to tap the hours away till bedtime,
wonder if i shall write serious,
tell thee all hard stories that
don’t exist. i wonder if i shall stop,
when no one reads.
this is a time to wonder at the
dark hours leaving, waters receding,
black trees slowly turning. wintergreen.
can you hear the wind outside, the radio,
all things growing, I could. it was the start.
should have known this will happen,
to me, to all of us. some have had a
splendid year, while some have not.
shall i speak of crumbled cookies, of those
dice, which we collect? no, i cannot speak,
i have no voice.
i tap the words with fingers.
here this morning, treading one note at a time,
pointing toes, wondering about the roof
next door in all this wind.
vedro con mio diletto
now the days grow lighter, my head is
tied back on, and all seems well.
it all sounds worse than it really is,
the beams , you know, do creak so.
it is an older house, direct line will
not insure, as it does not conform.
i use another company.
having searched for the word,
head reels across the room.
the path was mud, the willow cut
back to stump.
the memory remains.
this is not bethlehem.
two voices, softly said, “yes” they cannot understand the numbers nor find their families.