(I suppose most of these are works in progress)

The tender discipline of the water

Drift wood rubbed smooth

Gray sand under white clean foam

Out of black tender sea

Cue the violins in true melancholy

The gasp of fingers across the strings

Returned and harmonizing with the wind

I walk along gazing and swelling

With the driftwood

Peacefully longing to be a violin

To sing this song written in your eyes.

(this is a work in progress)

Weary and dry and finally unaffected,

For some it takes months and passing seasons,

but for others discipline comes quickly.

When four days past- delightfully whisked about

By a simple true breeze of friendly intention,

But now, after picking fights with the spring time air,

after neglect of silence following storms,

and after upheaval:

Speckled with mud and stretched from storm

hanging by a thread in the yard,

tired after such a tantrum: defeated

Obstinately, wearily taken down.

Enduring an industrial sized washer,

Followed by another four quarters to dry

to avoid another tangle with the precocious wind.

Starchy like a newly ironed army uniform

Though there was a particular happiness outside

a thrill hanging by a pin,

Linen is resigned to be pulled tight over a mattress,

Or folded in the closet, dusty but secure.

"...since we are surrounded by such a cloud of witnesses, let us set aside every weight and sin that CLINGS so closely, and run with perseverance the

RACE.

Most people hate running.

But, some people must run so to be healthy.

And, a few live to run.

I suppose I simply run to run, but the more fanatic group of people interest me.

I was reading a runner's magazine (which I might just subscribe to) and after excitedly examining the articles and special features, I realized that these people structure their entire lives to improve their running. They invest in special shorts and jog bras and gps watches and performance socks.

There was a feature about what to do before, during, and after a run which included a new look at everything: sleeping, when to wake up, when and what to eat, what to listen to, strategic fasting from technology, how to avoid stress, etc. ...and all for a better run.

And I found myself admiring this dedication in the hypothetical people who live like this.

I wanted to be able to associate with them.

But then I was struck with a post-Monty python feeling of "what's it all about?"

Not to be completely robbed of my new found love of the exhilaration of a daily run, I realized that running does have its place, and it's not gold medal, cause otherwise the gold medal would be sadly reduced to nothing more than a small human experience. And that's not enough.

What is my equivalent "run"? and for what am I running?

(ps: obviously this was not part of my series of poems, just a brief diversion)

this is probably my favorite:

White sheets outside before a July storm

With such sweet breath, by humble present hands,

Quiet deep eyes, an honest shape of mouth:

Quiet, gentle -near- my very self.

Whispering in reverence to sacred space

There is weight here, though sweet and simple

Settled in a meadow at the peak's base.

Thought-filled and spontaneous blossoms

Scattered by wind and sown by children's hands,

And red popsicle running down their sleeves.

Oh! And of laughing in stitches restitched

Tired threads holding old sighing seams

Foolish to believe this is my verse,

My soul is read when I try to read yours.

something from this past fall:

As I look to you

What grand universe

Such splendor and light.

My smallness is pearl,

universe in microcosm.

and what now-

but beckoned, from lowly

to Beauty.

How does one answer?

Your embrace is infinite

A deep calling

burrowing further

on deep.

[Though my praise falls short/amazed and speechless/give me grace to know you more]

a poem per post:

so there has been recent complaints about the rather stagnic nature of this blog, and while digging through my journals and stuff from this last year, I found some barely blog-worthy material, if only to fill space.

ps: most don't have titles, patterns or rhyms, so its probably a stretch to call them "poems" but hey now! be happy I'm putting them up, don't get too picky
; )
...................

When I look at this blank page,
I am compelled to fill it.
Then I hesitate. I am afraid.
The pen in my hand hovers.
I don't want to mess this up.
I shouldn't write anything of insignificance.
what a waste.
But, what do I have to write,
What could I offer.
I have nothing.
Weekend plans, doodles, and signatures.
They all are waiting for the future.
But if I can't write ona simple blank page,
Then how can I expect myself to step forward
into a day?
What is wasted in a scrap paper
compared to an empty day
after day