longing

 

from this week in August, 1987 (I was 42)

 

longing

for the quiet magnitude

of the original garden

before the first taste

of addictive want

that desire to possess

every fancy

 

for the quiet magnitude

of the original garden

with its solemn expression

of subtle magnificence

to fulfill every moment

aware

 

for the quiet magnitude

of the original garden

where no hand had turned

what the mind had twisted

with hissing whisper

to muscle

 

longing for the quiet

magnitude

of the original garden

but weeding something else

the while hoeing and pruning

to a noisy minority

watering evaporation

 

Themes of a Life

 

March 13, 1987  (I was 42)

 

         Themes of a Life

   (Escape of the thrilled soul)

 

The themes of a life fall upon me this morning;

begun as hard phrases for ideas found in youth,

they glare through blue windshield off wet pavement

momentarily blinding me once more in the spring.

 

Cheap Thrills, excursions of extremism,

a few footfalls beyond the bounds of convention,

taken as regularly as medicine

to reveal the arbitrary values upon which judgments lie

until pedestrian habit becomes cynical addiction.

 

Battling the Demons, little evils allowed to inhabit us

because we proudly remember Hemingway had them,

and their stings were so innocuous.

Age begins to understand persistence

and respect has made the little devils grow.

 

Dreams of Flying, any dreams really

that linger into the morning and take possession,

extending their insistent reality upon the dreamer’s conscious actions.

Dreams are the art of the soul, and to dream of flying

is undeniably to fly for the space of the dream, perhaps beyond.

 

Running along banks of the dry creek bed

 

from this week in 1987  (I was 42) 

 

Running along banks of the dry creek bed

on a path under eucalyptus toward setting sun

then across the bed and back eastward

under white full winter moon rising

the runner encounters passes from half a dozen

young cyclists whining on their space age bikes

in labeled armor and anonymous helmets

They are suburban safe unsupervised

revving up over moguls and through chutes in the creek

they gathered in neutral under the moon

Younger admirers on bicycles group atop the sunny ridge

Four times the lapping runner passes their pit stops

each time stronger steadier more distant

countering speed with endurance

feeling at least a little more in command of the old machine

Comic Angst

 

January 1, 1987  (I was 42) 

 

                  Comic Angst

Riding with the windows down and the radio on

in that springtime who needs a convertible to feel cool?

Not with the night taking its daylight savings time to arrive.

Not for one still too young to wear a softball uniform.

Not for one with a future but nothing to do Saturday night,

nothing to think about but something to dream.

 

With the windows down in the spring no one need be in the car.

The car and the universe and the moment move as one

and everything is harmonious because everything is not there.

No tedious transactions needed to maintain social survival.

No dependencies declaring individuality.

No distracted energy more and more precious.

 

No physical failure slows that automobile down.

There is no doubt coming in or going out of the windows of that auto.

Not that spring evening with the full moon already rising

and the stars intending to shine.

Not with those colors on the horizon and that presence in the night air.

Not with the knowledge, the belief, the rational obvious fact

that when the tank got empty you just filled it up again.

longing

from this week in August, 1987 (I was 42)

 

longing

for the quiet magnitude

of the original garden

before the first taste

of addictive want

that desire to possess

every fancy

 

for the quiet magnitude

of the original garden

with its solemn expression

of subtle magnificence

to fulfill every moment

aware

 

for the quiet magnitude

of the original garden

where no hand had turned

what the mind had twisted

with hissing whisper

to muscle

 

longing for the quiet

magnitude

of the original garden

but weeding something else

the while hoeing and pruning

to a noisy minority

watering evaporation

Ultimate Cynicism Bureaucratically Bred

from this week in May, 1987  (I was 42)

 

   Ultimate Cynicism Bureaucratically Bred

William Casey dead?

I doubt it.

I doubt he ever had brain seizures.

He was CIA Director.

He wasn’t going to testify.

Any movie will tell you

“If caught, the Company will deny knowledge of your actions

your assignment and possibly you.”

Surgery at Georgetown is a way out of that old cliché!

Everything at Georgetown is suspect-

classic academic front.

Casey’s probably living

in Mengele’s old place down in South America.

Themes of a Life

March 13, 1987  (I was 42)

         Themes of a Life

   (Escape of the thrilled soul)

The themes of a life fall upon me this morning;

begun as hard phrases for ideas found in youth,

they glare through blue windshield off wet pavement

momentarily blinding me once more in the spring.

Cheap Thrills, excursions of extremism,

a few footfalls beyond the bounds of convention,

taken as regularly as medicine

to reveal the arbitrary values upon which judgments lie

until pedestrian habit becomes cynical addiction.

Battling the Demons, little evils allowed to inhabit us

because we proudly remember Hemingway had them,

and their stings were so innocuous.

Age begins to understand persistence

and respect has made the little devils grow.

Dreams of Flying, any dreams really

that linger into the morning and take possession,

extending their insistent reality upon the dreamer’s conscious actions.

Dreams are the art of the soul, and to dream of flying

is undeniably to fly for the space of the dream, perhaps beyond.

Running along banks of the dry creek bed

from this week in 1987  (I was 42) 

Running along banks of the dry creek bed

on a path under eucalyptus toward setting sun

then across the bed and back eastward

under white full winter moon rising

the runner encounters passes from half a dozen

young cyclists whining on their space age bikes

in labeled armor and anonymous helmets

They are suburban safe unsupervised

revving up over moguls and through chutes in the creek

they gathered in neutral under the moon

Younger admirers on bicycles group atop the sunny ridge

Four times the lapping runner passes their pit stops

each time stronger steadier more distant

countering speed with endurance

feeling at least a little more in command of the old machine

getting in shape

January 2, 1987  (I was 42) 

         getting in shape

Fool the body with physical tasks

muscular distractions, diversionary tactics

Busy the mind with energy burn

leg churning arm swinging breast beating

until thought leaks perspiration and heat

steamy images formed and reformed each breath

until impossible associations become logical.

Endurance comes from benign connections.

Malicious thought fatigues.  Think right and run forever.

Caught off the footpath and immediately in trouble.

Stationary thoughts may get dangerous, may be recorded-

too introspective, too deep, too convoluted, too big.

Quick, eat something, make it all stop, choke on calories.

No.  Choose water and rice and isolation.  It works awhile.

Time passes.  When time passes discipline is said to be easier.

Temptation is the one to become impotent.

Art is the exercise to keep the sedate body thin.

So it’s that or running in the dark.

Comic Angst

January 1, 1987  (I was 42) 

                  Comic Angst

Riding with the windows down and the radio on

in that springtime who needs a convertible to feel cool?

Not with the night taking its daylight savings time to arrive.

Not for one still too young to wear a softball uniform.

Not for one with a future but nothing to do Saturday night,

nothing to think about but something to dream.

With the windows down in the spring no one need be in the car.

The car and the universe and the moment move as one

and everything is harmonious because everything is not there.

No tedious transactions needed to maintain social survival.

No dependencies declaring individuality.

No distracted energy more and more precious.

No physical failure slows that automobile down.

There is no doubt coming in or going out of the windows of that auto.

Not that spring evening with the full moon already rising

and the stars intending to shine.

Not with those colors on the horizon and that presence in the night air.

Not with the knowledge, the belief, the rational obvious fact

that when the tank got empty you just filled it up again.

Themes of a Life

March 13, 1987  (I was 42)

            Themes of a Life

   (Escape of the thrilled soul)

The themes of a life fall upon me this morning;

begun as hard phrases for ideas found in youth,

they glare through blue windshield off wet pavement

momentarily blinding me once more in the spring.

Cheap Thrills, excursions of extremism,

a few footfalls beyond the bounds of convention,

taken as regularly as medicine

to reveal the arbitrary values upon which judgments lie

until pedestrian habit becomes cynical addiction.

Battling the Demons, little evils allowed to inhabit us

because we proudly remember Hemingway had them,

and their stings were so innocuous.

Age begins to understand persistence

and respect has made the little devils grow.

Dreams of Flying, any dreams really

that linger into the morning and take possession,

extending their insistent reality upon the dreamer’s conscious actions.

Dreams are the art of the soul, and to dream of flying

is undeniably to fly for the space of the dream, perhaps beyond.

longing

from this week in August, 1987 (I was 42)

longing

for the quiet magnitude

of the original garden

before the first taste

of addictive want

that desire to possess

every fancy

for the quiet magnitude

of the original garden

with its solemn expression

of subtle magnificence

to fulfill every moment

aware

for the quiet magnitude

of the original garden

where no hand had turned

what the mind had twisted

with hissing whisper

to muscle

longing for the quiet

magnitude

of the original garden

but weeding something else

the while hoeing and pruning

to a noisy minority

watering evaporation

Ultimate Cynicism Bureaucratically Bred

from this week in May, 1987  (I was 42)

 

   Ultimate Cynicism Bureaucratically Bred

William Casey dead?

I doubt it.

I doubt he ever had brain seizures.

He was CIA Director.

He wasn’t going to testify.

Any movie will tell you

“If caught, the Company will deny knowledge of your actions

your assignment and possibly you.”

Surgery at Georgetown is a way out of that old cliché!

Everything at Georgetown is suspect-

classic academic front.

Casey’s probably living

in Mengele’s old place down in South America.

Themes of a Life

March 13, 1987  (I was 42)

            Themes of a Life

   (Escape of the thrilled soul)

The themes of a life fall upon me this morning;

begun as hard phrases for ideas found in youth,

they glare through blue windshield off wet pavement

momentarily blinding me once more in the spring.

Cheap Thrills, excursions of extremism,

a few footfalls beyond the bounds of convention,

taken as regularly as medicine

to reveal the arbitrary values upon which judgments lie

until pedestrian habit becomes cynical addiction.

Battling the Demons, little evils allowed to inhabit us

because we proudly remember Hemingway had them,

and their stings were so innocuous.

Age begins to understand persistence

and respect has made the little devils grow.

Dreams of Flying, any dreams really

that linger into the morning and take possession,

extending their insistent reality upon the dreamer’s conscious actions.

Dreams are the art of the soul, and to dream of flying

is undeniably to fly for the space of the dream, perhaps beyond.

Running along banks of the dry creek bed

from this week in 1987  (I was 42) 

Running along banks of the dry creek bed

on a path under eucalyptus toward setting sun

then across the bed and back eastward

under white full winter moon rising

the runner encounters passes from half a dozen

young cyclists whining on their space age bikes

in labeled armor and anonymous helmets

They are suburban safe unsupervised

revving up over moguls and through chutes in the creek

they gathered in neutral under the moon

Younger admirers on bicycles group atop the sunny ridge

Four times the lapping runner passes their pit stops

each time stronger steadier more distant

countering speed with endurance

feeling at least a little more in command of the old machine

getting in shape

January 2, 1987  (I was 42) 

            getting in shape

Fool the body with physical tasks

muscular distractions, diversionary tactics

Busy the mind with energy burn

leg churning arm swinging breast beating

until thought leaks perspiration and heat

steamy images formed and reformed each breath

until impossible associations become logical.

Endurance comes from benign connections.

Malicious thought fatigues.  Think right and run forever.

Caught off the footpath and immediately in trouble.

Stationary thoughts may get dangerous, may be recorded-

too introspective, too deep, too convoluted, too big.

Quick, eat something, make it all stop, choke on calories.

No.  Choose water and rice and isolation.  It works awhile.

Time passes.  When time passes discipline is said to be easier.

Temptation is the one to become impotent.

Art is the exercise to keep the sedate body thin.

So it’s that or running in the dark.

Comic Angst

January 1, 1987  (I was 42) 

                        Comic Angst

Riding with the windows down and the radio on

in that springtime who needs a convertible to feel cool?

Not with the night taking its daylight savings time to arrive.

Not for one still too young to wear a softball uniform.

Not for one with a future but nothing to do Saturday night,

nothing to think about but something to dream.

With the windows down in the spring no one need be in the car.

The car and the universe and the moment move as one

and everything is harmonious because everything is not there.

No tedious transactions needed to maintain social survival.

No dependencies declaring individuality.

No distracted energy more and more precious.

No physical failure slows that automobile down.

There is no doubt coming in or going out of the windows of that auto.

Not that spring evening with the full moon already rising

and the stars intending to shine.

Not with those colors on the horizon and that presence in the night air.

Not with the knowledge, the belief, the rational obvious fact

that when the tank got empty you just filled it up again.