I don’t write in a journal everyday, but I have accumulated many entries over the past 50+ years beginning in 1966. Some items evolved into longer works. Among the leftovers little pieces survived. I thought a collection of these with a piece culled from the same date in a past year would make an interesting yearbook. The consistencies and inconsistencies of mind, skipping back and forth across time, provide varied perspectives. It is difficult to remember the context of the past we’ve lived; we also make suppositions about times that predate ourselves.

The few alterations from original drafts were to improve clarity. The worst of my work is not included. There remains enough mediocrity and immaturity to make me feel humble and you feel smart. There are also moments of accidental insight and incidental humor.

Author Stephen Crane referred to his little pieces as pills…apparently they were small and somewhat hard to swallow, but good for you.


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Saturday, February 10, 2018

straw


February 10,1974  (I was 29)

            straw
The grass on the hillside is tender
the small flowers make their annual proclamation
insects are flying in tandem
The sun opens every pore
releases every fertile fragrance
birdsong fills the canyon
Ignorant man is ignored by nature
the significant ladybug walks along the blade
The bird chorus (so beautiful various and new)
will not be interrupted by a distant car starter
that will not will not start the car
or by the small piston plane sucking air in
to snuff it out again
Both are soon lost in the unconscious melody
and the silent motions of flight
So why have I not renounced my own noise
I take no lasting joy from the mountain
I have mechanical commitments to my own devices
and I am not a bird
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