whattya write when
there's nothing to say
kinda like that fella
sitting on the dock
of that famous bay
instead...
i am sitting near
the washing machine
watching the tide
clean the clothes
listenin' to the
swishy waves
pulsing along
humming to their
rhythm...
wastin' time? or just
thinkin,' you know,
contemplatin' stuff,
stuff that have no
answers...
i don't have to go
nowhere
to be far away
walking slowly
more of an amble
on this october day
wanting to be more
autumnal
enjoying nature
the trees really wanting
and trying hard to
change color
walking along with a
persistent soundtrack
chakering in my head
and feeling you...
all around
everywhere
in every leaf
in every bird
in the ghazel of the breeze
in every... fragrant breath
i felt your
your serious look
centering me
your playful glance
a spring in my old gait
your dreamy gaze
aerating my soul
your joyful laugh
taking my heart to the sky
your vulnerable mien
weighing it back down
well... yeah...
this aluminium vessel
this rhetorical canoe
gitching the goomey
'surface of reality'
paddling up this stream
pooled by beavers
into a dam crafted of
chewed metaphors
to become this...
this whowatchadoozit
thingofabobamajig
poetic stain...
october 2025
in this shade of
being under an elder
crafting this wee bit
on this globally
warm late september
still summer
oughta be autumn
alliterative kinda day
good enough
almost perfect...
the emptiness
it came in an arid wave
dampening my spirit
in a mirage
content one moment
lost and unfulfilled
the next...
what the...
how the ...
does this even happen?
bad poems
sloppy music
wanabee writer's
blockhead pretense
dilettantish delusion
old fuck wheezer
not even a great pretender
then...
i sat in the sun
and globally warmed
i thought of you
listened to music
sipped coffee
and...
fucking hell
felt better
a self-absorbed
mood swung
flip-flop ping...
what was it you said?
oh yeah, lose the ego
it's called 'everyman's dish'
a simple steaming pot of three
or maybe ten ingredients
lentils sorted to remove the wee stones
the cracked wheat of the bulgars
onions chopped and caramelized
some kind of stocky brothy
almond milk bullionaire chicken
or beef or just plain old water
spices and garnishes steeped
with love and tradition of the
very region you are named for
i have never tasted yours...
they say is the best ever, here
or there, in this hemisphere
or that, heck, maybe the planet
but i have been nourished, often,
by the mujadara of your soul
by the mujadara of your heart
the mujadara of your very being
with every little look you give
every little thing you say...
every beautiful note you sing
laden, dripping, with joy or pathos
even better when it is
both at the same time
some night before
we ever met, unaware
of the life changing
mind boggling heart
melting soul soaring
wing dingy thingy
thing that was about to
happen
some night before
thinking... that next
day was to be
supposed to be
some hum drummy
normalistic whatever I was
thinking about not
thinking about kind of
tomorrow
unaware
you'd walk in
under the radar
right up to me
giving me just a
little coy glimpse
of that glowing
pure radiance full
of grace smile
everything changed
but i didn't know it
yet...
