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Barefoot walking on the Camino. Spain, May, 2015.

Barefoot walking on the Camino. Spain, May, 2014.

A List of Reasons
When a poet makes a list,
death cannot be far behind.
He says, I will go here and there,
I will see this and I will touch that.
But that is all, that is all he will stay for,
he is a poet at the end of his life.
He has better things to do than live.
These are the things he has promised himself.
He makes a list of all the things.
And quietly checks them off, one at a time.
He hears the clock ticking down,
knows it’s time to slip into
that well worn funereal suit.
But he is reluctant to go,
he adds to his list.
I have not yet seen this,
I have not yet touched that,
Things will be different,
if only I touch that one last thing
.
And then he’s in the mountains one day
and he shouts and shouts,
and no man, no woman, no child
responds. He knows he is utterly alone,
but this time he remembers
that it has always been this way.
Alone is no longer lonely,
he steps in the puddle at his feet,
decides he does not need the list.
He sits and adds all the things
to a new list, this one of reasons
not to die just yet.

A found flower. Tai O, Hong Kong. April, 2015.

A found flower. Tai O, Hong Kong. April, 2015.

Joy’s Irony

Poetic silence is a three step process.

First step, you must relinquish
all tears. They help the words to flow.
While you break, words crystallize pretty and big.

Second step, you hold your breath,
this is the in-between phase
where nothing happens
but the passing of time.
Healing occurs, like an underwater lake
being made into mud as it steams away.

Third step, you have nothing left to say,
lost in your own fleeting happiness,
the poems run dry
as words left to rot
in a noonday sun.
You revel in the joy
that incidentally killed them.