i.
writing this blind
more like blurry|
notebook here
pen in hand
glasses at home
ii.
contemplating
taking in the whir
the leisure bustle
and gold coasty buzz
of people living
urbane and urban
iii.
you should be here
beyond just
in my heart
and weaving
about my thoughts
there is a unique place
where heart and soul
spirit and prayer and
love in every form
and nuance intersect
this is where you live
in this world
my own creation
this is where you buzz
from flower to flower
queen beeing, pollinating
deep dreamy rich thoughts
and deeper beliefs
that delightfully disrupt
playfully disorient
and adding meaning
and texture that color
the tapestry of my life
july 2026
you need it
i need it
you need it more
sometimes
might be a second
might be a minute
might be an hour
might be a day
a week, a month
ugh... a year or years
just to be alone
just to recharge
just to think
just to meditate
levitate if we could
from here to
who knows where
like superman
like his fortress of...
your fortress
is the sun and sky
the lake and trees
a gentle breeze
birds sitting or chirping
or in graceful flight
it is your recharging
rejuvenation
revival renewal
regeneration
almost a rebirth
it ends with a calm
a subtle change
in your gaze
more assured
more content
so subtle
just a few
very few
even
notice
sometimes
sketching poems
by keyboard... works
othertimes
it's no better
than chiseling them...
in stone
this is when
i just gottta
scribble and scratch
erase or strike
make circles and
draw arrows
start and restart
write and overwrite
and edit and re-edit
work 'em like clay
'til they form and
breath on their own
i saw a perfect photo
just a photo of you
another amongst the
hundreds we take
and take and post
these cell phoney daze
it's just a photo
just a photo of you
in your own unique
beautiful splendor
gazing determined
into an unsure future
assuring anyone
that knows you
that it will be...
this one hit me
it struck a deep chord
of some imagined past
this perfect photo of you
a mountain partizan
a fedayee fighting
for survival of a
faith and a race
pulling out this photo
frayed and faded
every cold night
to renew the will
to fight on
this simple and perfect
photo of you
just watched a film
lovely, meaningful
an art film, multi-
mediaed with
images lush
gritty and urban
folksy music
modern irish
hinting of tones
timbres and sage
like lyrics from
oh, so long ago
an art film that
made me think
contemplate, wonder
and bask in some awe
all peaceful, insight full
dashed with a wee bit
of angsty something
or other
why then poems?
unlayered of all
the noise abound
deep and from
maybe a soul
pure thoughts
nuggets of raw ore
from an earthy core
confusing, twisted, in
some fuzzy fractal form
my thoughts
unprocessed
in sweet rawness
scribbled down
directly to you
apologies to william butler yeats and pierre de ronsard
when you are old and gray
as i am now
sitting in a room
warm with memories
on a cold winter day
as i am now
but won't be then
read this poem again
with an almost faint smile
as i have now
and recall how you were
purely loved just for
for the lovely soul
that you are now
and i have never been
=== Pierre de Ronsard 1524-1585 ===
Quand Vous Serez Bien Vieille
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.
Lors, vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.
Je serai sous la terre et fantôme sans os :
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos :
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain :
Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.
— Sonnets pour Hélène, 1587
When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”
Then not one of your servants dozing gently there
hearing my name’s cadence break through your low repines
but will start into wakefulness out of her dreams
and bless your name — immortalised by my desire.
I’ll be underneath the ground, and a boneless shade
taking my long rest in the scented myrtle-glade,
and you’ll be an old woman, nodding towards life’s close,
regretting my love, and regretting your disdain.
Heed me, and live for now: this time won’t come again.
Come, pluck now — today — life’s so quickly-fading rose.
(originally published in Tide and Undertow by Anthony Weir, Belfast 1975)
Poem and translation taken from http://www.bewilderingstories.com
=== W. B. Yeats 1865-1939 ===
When You are Old
When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”
Then not one of your servants dozing gently there
hearing my name’s cadence break through your low repines
but will start into wakefulness out of her dreams
and bless your name — immortalised by my desire.
I’ll be underneath the ground, and a boneless shade
taking my long rest in the scented myrtle-glade,
and you’ll be an old woman, nodding towards life’s close,
regretting my love, and regretting your disdain.
Heed me, and live for now: this time won’t come again.
Come, pluck now — today — life’s so quickly-fading rose.
(originally published in Tide and Undertow by Anthony Weir, Belfast 1975)
