virus dance name note lingers runway rugged quaver paper prey veil wish
Converted runway into "runs away". Poetic licence.
A Curious Man
“Curiosity is the wick
in the candle of learning.”
— William Arthur Ward
It’s a mess, his mind.
It dances,
The only part of him that does,
It lingers then runs away
On a whim, on an idea,
That, virus-like, takes him
Down exciting pathways,
A prey to his curiosity,
Where he draws aside veils
That few normal men
Dare to part.
His realm is also a mess.
Papers, notes, books,
A microscope, two actually,
A brass Tibetan singing bowl,
A decanter of port, brandy.
Paintings, plants, music.
A rubber puppet of Leonid Breznev.
Three lacrosse balls,
Chinese medicine balls,
A computer and an abacus.
A kaleidoscope of stuff:
A harlequin testament
To a curious mind.
He’s not a rugged man,
Not a blokey man,
Not even a man’s man.
He laughs at the ridiculous.
Has no football team,
Hard pressed to even name one.
Writes poetry of various sorts,
Abhors cruelty and injustice.
Gets emotional easily,
His voice will quaver,
And his eyes water readily.
But he doesn’t care,
It’s because he does.
As men go, he is, well...
Curious.
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spiral craft signal draft shallow rule dense send shell sham slapping laugh
Another Place
“Silence is sometimes the best answer.”
— Dalai Lama XIV
The smoke spirals slowly upwards
The air is dense with aromatics,
Drifting slowly in the breeze,
On the draft that flows gently,
Languidly, through the building,
Swirling ever so lazily.
◊
The outside boils.
A world of rules.
Must this.
Should that.
Buy. Buy. Buy.
Constant pressure.
Craft your life.
Chase your dreams.
Buy. Keep. Forget.
A shallow shell
Without meaning.
Or purpose.
Sham friends.
It has laughter,
But no joy.
It is all rush.
It slaps noisily
Against the temple
But cannot enter.
◊
Inside the stillness
The smoke spirals calmly,
Sending a message of both
Impermanence and continuity—
A signal that life can be embraced
Peacefully, serenely, in another place.
A temple bell rings.
◊
voices time story debris present travel lead doors roots prophecy last mirror
The Blessing
The voices of time grew louder.
We both heard them.
We still walked the garden paths,
held hands in the quiet,
but the last door was coming into view.
On a wheeled-walk,
one of her final weeks,
while she was still fully present,
she stopped, looked at me,
and with a steady, loving breath said:
"You must find another wife".
It was not a prophecy.
It was a blessing.
We stood together
at the doors life sets before us—
grief, solitude, freedom—
and she pointed me toward
the one marked Live.
Roots run deep in the story we shared;
growth belongs to the new leaves.
Now the mirror of the past
still shows its debris and treasures,
but it does not bind me.
I travel forward,
letting love lead,
knowing it can be given twice in one life—
once as a beginning,
once as a renewal.
A blessing.
◊
souvenirs free touch know cracks siren window waves sting show ring give
Poet & Storytellers had the following prompt:
"What’s the most important step a person can take?"
My answer is 'forward'.
The Path
"The past is not a tether but a teacher.
When the lesson is learned, step forward."
They are everywhere.
Windows on a past life.
Souvenirs fill my space.
Not all mine. Not all ours.
That’s the sting, of course,
I have become the curator
Of someone else’s loves.
But they do touch me—
I know why they were special,
Mostly.
Special to someone else.
Rings, of course, stay,
Their story is eternal.
But where to from here?
◊
The past. The future.
The linkages crack,
The grip loosens—
The sirens of life, a living life,
Call me, pull me,
Set me free,
Leading me on—
To the future.
◊
Behind me,
The past waves,
Blows me a loving kiss,
And wishes me well.
I step forward.
◊