Sunday Sundries with a NaPoWriMo lens
4/23/2023 Happy 23/23!
Fishing for Words 4/23/2023, Con/Jur/d Despite the number of times I’ve rewritten it, and the styles tried, I can’t improve on the original “Like finding in the back of the freezer a forgotten pint of Amaretto Cherry ice cream the one with the little chocolate bits” as said by Tracy Mitchell, or the feeling of being watched by dairy cows from whom the ice cream might be made or the rush of discovering a feral Thornapple grove with my wife who doesn’t like cherries, tho appreciates the chocolate or the Strange tickling sensation spreading up my spine upon reading, the great green plants underfoot are False Hellebore whose toxic roots were eaten by some First Peoples to decide who would lead choosing the one who was least sick, to decide among equals And it seems the words who remain innocent despite my best efforts to twist and pervert them, lack a certain physicality, much beloved by Sycamore tree’s fluffy seeds filling the warm spring air on the uncertain path to this hidden stream lush with trout.
Stick around, below the fold for some warmup poems
Sober reflections Con/Jur/d, 4/23/2023 I didn’t have much to add to the situation having passed the no-going-back warning signs before most were born This doesn’t mean, or rather a means to an end, private Jester Bells and Motley were a way to hide in public, be The Great Sobering while claiming to help and maybe it has, a sense of humor seems lacking, they lie, soberly We teeter on the edge, in any direction you care to look yet the facing of, the shaman dancing madly, is lacking Meant to be a warmup, quickly becomes a whole thing The Abyss seems lonely, “You can’t even meet my eye”
Addendum to Sober Reflections -- a Ghazal after Jim Harrison Con/Jur/d, 4/23/2023 Please, don’t assume I don’t approve of this return to sunsets as inspiration, being stoned on sobriety is also singular truths Drunk on methods, money, manifestations are one way, not to be confused with the only way, or claim inside informations Unless through hard work, luck, a karmic turn on the celestial wheel you’ve remembered you’re Buddha, Christ, or just you Dancing on the Edge of Endings, here for a short time, why swill pre-prepared elixirs of oil, gears, electrons humming Not that there is anything wrong with that, I’ve always had a bend telling you how to live, rather than doing "I" deeply