"The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest." ~~ E.B. White
Dancing soft footed down feathered highways
Dreaming of my father mother where’d they go
My dancing rhythmic movements pleading
Hear me my call my heart my soul
Don’t let the sun down past mountains
Beyond where silence absorbs
The scope of things
Silencing breath
Hard drawn moments look
To shut me down
When the words are gone
Where is my father
I am loosely tethered
To the life I’m in
When the words are gone
Where is my mother
What I wouldn’t give to be in a conversation with
Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, Haydn. Hell. All of them.
Add John Steinbeck and James Salter, Charles Dickens! Leo Tolstoy! Edith Wharton, Shakespeare, Dos Passos, Austen, Emily Dickinson. Hell. All of them.
And Lincoln, Washington, TR, FDR. Hell. All of them.
Dr. King, Mandela, Gandhi, Malcom, Sadat, Eleanor Roosevelt. Hell. All of them.
Per the droppers on the window
hinting the scent of wet leaves
good reading weather
cuddle
I am sick of violence. All kinds.
Physical. Emotional. Spiritual.
Financial. Environmental. Bigoted.
Your capacity to inflict violence
is not a measure of your strength.
Rubbish. Violence and strength,
nothing synonymous
about them.
