Extended Calendar

that linear time
our watches portray
long labored to measure
our history
our transports
our rents
and our stress..
this servant will not
of course
die this Friday..
but may begin
a humble recognition
of its residence
through all ages
within a more unbounded
joyous yet fearful
home..

Slivers

days of tears

with this darkness..

our reasoning blunted..

repetitions..

layers out there

and within..

beginnings now

Slivers of light...?

Trace

where one stands

light moment confronting..

the encounter takes root

advice is to hesitate

right there..

the moment contains

pieces of necessity

these forever lost

by walking on..

Preserving the Trace...

Transport

those daily excursions

travels so necessary

point A to point B
are there grooves

long before emplaced..?

then finding ourselves
in pleasant surprise
driver as passenger
awaking in dream..

finding new vision

this more en-lightened

 Transport...?

grasping Emily

her poems

pierce us 

to our core..

we must surrender

to her choice

of words..

a wrong word

she despairs

 to malaria compares..

perhaps a way inside

enter her two doors..

watch these

switch and intertwine..

heaven/hell

soul/society

light/slant

morning/night..

find ourselves on the  /

 still..
as we wrestle
are we grasping for an
 Emily Ungraspable..?

(preparing for an
Emily Dickinson
discussion..)

feathers

hope

she said is

the thing with feathers

perched and singing

without words..

 words must surely

be deeply hidden

within that song..

can we locate

another perch..?

and ask the feather

what are your words

and your song..?

the words we find

it's shape does bind..

here are the

sharp connectors and barbs..

barbules and hooklets

all of these

to hold a feather form..

and what of a song..?

a central shaft with ending quill

guides nutrition and light..

sacred texts penned

and that majestic flight..

hope extends...

(with appreciation for 
Emily Dickinson's
poem)

Hope     

Hope is the thing with feathers 

That perches in the soul, 

And sings the tune--without the words, 

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard; 

And sore must be the storm 

That could abash the little bird 

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land, 

And on the strangest sea; 

Yet, never, in extremity, 

It asked a crumb of me.