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Sunday, October 27, 2013

365 Poems: I did this, I did that

Day 300 (300!)

UPDATE: Some will recognize lines -- or lighted edited lines -- from those whose 'words were in my head.' I thought about being specific as to what lines are borrowed -- but heck, do a little detective work and JFGI. However, shoutouts to those I carry around with me every day, no matter what I'm doing (in no particular order): Gerard Manley Hopkins, Thomas Hardy, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, John Updike, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelly, John O'Hara (in this poem, my fav line comes from him), Jack Kerouac, William Shakespeare, Indiana's own Jared Carter (who has been a friend to this blog), and, of course, Ray. Always Ray. I only borrow from the best.
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An extremely clumsy homage to the New York School; first-draft status. Please remember I'm just playing with words here. Just for fun.

But Maybe


6:30 a.m. Wednesday. AGAIN.
The cat complains so he gets
his breakfast first, then slinks away
on silent cat feet.
I self-medicate.
After showering
I catch this morning morning’s minion --
and drive. For I must work,
work, for the night is coming,
work is what the day holds for
she cares for the sick,
she who teaches the children --
She who sits at the desk.
I understand the boredom of the clerks.


Out the north window the day flows by
with the traffic, on the road the
weary wain plods forward.
I click and watch and wonder
if work be sleep, is my life
but a dream? The words
from my fingers
match not the words
in my head; yet words
words words words
all the many words,
all the words wonky weird words
asdf space jkl semi space
All words.


It's my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk with the words,

my words, their words, your words --
Cross the street to the gas station to
buy a Coke from a lady
who’s been working since five,
she tells me -- Five! But I’ll be off at one! --
We both escape from the beeping bad food
busy-ness of that one-stop shop;
I swim out of it into the early afternoon
of hot sun, sharp on my shoulders,
the brightness piercing my eyes
a slap to my somnolence:
I awake. I awake.


Later.


So do our minutes hasten to their end,
death, taxes, and even a work day;
Work’s no excuse. Love of work.
The blood singing in that.
I’m trying to make it work.
On the highway home I pass
through the verdant fields of the
little river lowlands, the farmers
absent this summer’s day,
leaving the rows to their growing,
planning the future harvest,
a business plan for bounty.


I’ll not stop today; I have promises to keep,
miles and minutes to go.
A path to choose.
At home the cat welcomes me,
meows at me,
demanding, again and still: feed me.
Feed me.
Feed me.

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