seen in my sleep

it was in a dream

that i started stringing and spooling

the lines along

composing

in my sleep.

i thought it a good one, magnificent even

worthy of the readers time, my own to put it down.

of course it slipped from the thread of my memory and  now

i am left bereft

of the thoughts i thought

feeling my way through this tunnel of dank sameness.

wishing

oh wishing

i could

remember

that poem

i composed in my sleep.

fluid motion

the surface of promise stretches

the length of this lane,

all of them.

i come here, to this place of calm

twice daily.

not always the same location, but the same place.

it is in my soul that i have missed

making space for an element i often neglect

for rubble stands in my path

and vague self-conscious reasoning echos in my head the busyness of the daily joe

throw

yourself into your 

work.argument.traffic.errands.lonliness.endlesse-mails

.gasolineprices.

and not the static calm of this place

this water

this being that envelops me and welcomes me back again.

nice to have you, it says.

don't you want to stay?

become a fish?  well

ok

yes

habit.

all you have to do is get in.

staying

leaving is out for now. 

which it tough.  

could have gone back to the mountains and worked this summer, but i felt rooted here.  like, i shouldn't pick up and go even though I could have, easily.  

so, here i sit.  

and wait.  

and am reminded constantly that i am a believer of the unseen, of the invisible yet tangible beyond belief.  

i am a liver of life in the only one i know who has ever truly lived.  

i am following one who loves me more than i can ever understand and always holds me in his hand even when i feel like i can't take anymore of this harsh life, because it is.  

but it is also beautiful.  

all so beautiful.

seville 3ooo

as these old keys click and the metal

clacks

and the words come flowing out.

as music from my head, my heart just

sits down on the paper

translucent

for all to see.

or at least one.

some letters and symbols are missing, the important ones are present

to translate for me the beauty of owning something

old

something partially bent and busted and used up and new

to me.

still lives on in the best of ways, the finest of uses

in the hands of the young and inexperienced.

i type as you would have, perhaps

o stranger who once owned this thing.

i am certain the joy oozes from each push of a letter

each carriage return,

the 'ding!' of the reminder

that this line can only be so long.

there are mistakes on nearly every line; at least every paragraph

and some seem fixable

but you can still see the wrong, just pushed harder over with the right.

thank you for this gift of old to young

time past to now.

you didn't know it

but i need it.

the cadence of your creation 

soothes my soul 

in a way i have not known in eons.

3ooo times the pleasure of a slow life

filled to the brim.

my grievous errors

1. i worry even though i'm not supposed to 
   
2. i speed when i know it is posted lower for a good reason
   
3. i laugh really loudly when the atmosphere is demure-like
   
4. i eat with my fingers when it is clearly silverware time
   
5. i do not make eye contact with creepy strangers who obviously want my attention
6. i swear without carefully checking to ensure a child-free environment
7. i use my typewriter when my roommate is trying to sleep
8. i procrastinate about little things
9. i do not pray as often as i want to
10. i take weeks to return some calls
11. i do all these things, knowingly.  i am a sad, sad little (wo)man.

BUT!  there is hope!  for tomorrow is another day, a fresh day.

free from my previous grievous errors.  what a chance, what an opportunity!

you know what i like?

when something turns out to be nothing.

really, i'll explain.

when that huge, monstrosity of a fog that has given you stress spots for days,

even made you avoid certain subjects or try on being diplomatic for a change.

that mysterious, heavy worry and frown upon your face, after all this time

turns out to be

nothing.

everything works out even better than you had hoped.

people cooperate and life runs smoothly for an hour.

the world keeps on turning.

and it is nothing.

which is wonderful.

what if

the walkers shake

and soft shoes tap

smooth pants and outfits all out dated

around the music go

dancing and shooting the stars and

start to make me wonder 

why

we are infatuated with youth

when it is the old who know the joy of living

who relish the moments

knowing

there might not be more.

none of us holds tomorrow

for a fragile grasp at life grips us all.

what if

old people made the music videos?

what if they showed us

how it's done?

let me never forget to stop and talk.

generations lost for fear and regret, shown up in a poll

of unimportant and noncommittal.

we are losing them by simply not choosing them

they are just like us.

celebrate the stages and the phases, each one.

i hope i may get old

or at the very least

truly live with those who are.

it is only

the breaking of the dawn

his body

this fraught will of iron feathers

my heart.

it is not the 

starving multitudes or the end of the light we call life.

it is only.

a job.

an occupation.

a paycheck.

it 

is

not

who i am.