free of form,
loosing sense
and quickly jotting
down thoughts
on the edge of imagination,
these words
are the breakers
on a beach,
forced ashore,
as it leaves
a foreign coast,
they break
the
tic
tock
existence of being
awake,
washing over silent moments
when all there is to do
is ponder pondering
or fall asleep,
no glory
or marvel
in these slow fumbling thoughts,
arm to hand,
fingers to pencil,
sanding a dull soft history
in charcoal,
I don’t mean to be down
on self,
but there’s no pretending
there is wit
to self deprecation,
I just write to witness
the dawn and dusk
of escaping thoughts,
and in these weeks,
as things have changed,
I seem to scribble and scribble,
worthless to historians
but maybe something
to a shrink,
maybe left for me to read
once more
and from a year from now,
as everything good waits,
and problems never wait,
for what I’ve done so far
doesn’t tie together well,
not a smallest bit of sense
but I am a patient man,
not afraid to act
when greatness rises
from the yard ahead,
and so I think
about other things
when I should be concentrating
on meanings and results,
still a hint
not so much providence
but a common sense
I should be doing something
else.

 
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