Experiments with Dry Ice…


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To say,

breath floating away from you

from me

in puffs of white billowy

gas

the birth place of clouds

as we stand

the words tumbling around us

“Look” the child cries to his mother

“I am making a cloud” his

breath floating away from him

as well

but his

innocent

and ours lost?

Do we speak of truth or

lips moving we lie

our cloud

black on the inside

no lining

no silver

just

black

are we building

the storm clouds of spring?

The crows

sit perched

watching

piecing each cloud

with their steely gaze

they watch not the child

they long for storm clouds

they long for rain

and thunder

explosions of

light and sound

that float away from us

our lips moving

our lies escaping

to

become

black clouds bringing rain…

 

 

.doc

the path to enlightenment, or lost in the woods


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What do you mean?

When presented with a positive statement how do you respond?

Do you repeat the statement and say I am glad you feel that way? Or do you affirm the statement acknowledging that the other person feels that way and then affirming that by saying you also consider it?

 

Random Thoughts

  • I don’t get it
  • I am lost
  • I am confused
  • it hurts
  • why is this the way things are?
  • OK so I don’t want to clean my room.

 

Confusion reigns supreme. What once seemed simple is now complex.

 

.doc

The song you sing when you first realize…


 

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Sorry for the odd title – it was a musing that I was having this am. Not sure why my brain headed down that path although I suspect deep down inside a part of me knows. Over time you have all these things rattling around in your head. You would think that a holiday would be the chance to hit reset and start over – but frankly they tend to bubble up even more when you are free. I think that is because during the work week we move so fast there really isn’t time to “consider” the various things flying around in your head. So, take a little pressure off and instead of slowing down the brain shoots forward , faster.

Today that line popped into my head along with twelve others which I won’t subject you to.

Happy Thanksgiving for those in the US, for the rest of the world, happy Thursday!

.doc

and yet of what form?


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You reach with me

or rather you reach

I reach

but the gulf of Siam is broad

and we find sand

in our toes

that gives no grip

I look both left and right

thinking

this cannot be

for it was not once before

and now is

but can it be?

The gulf of Siam

warm waters that invite

two peninsulas

seeking a connection

but they do not touch

the water warm between them

limits contact

limits communication

limits

limits

we reach

but the water is too wide.

 

.doc

The sound of thunder


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The last known painting of Skyler blue

and the rain falls around me

each drop

revealing an image of something

that was

or perhaps

something that will be

the ghost of Christmas yet to be

haunting me like Dickens laughing

The image you leave

changes with each drop

washing away time with the water

washing away each indeterminable tiny crack

until the sidewalk is awash

and yet I run

running faster and faster

trying to dodge the drops now

trying not be be the lost child

I am confused.

I am lost.

but you can’t hear me

through the thunder

as it rolls across the ground like

huge marbles or quarters

thrown from high above

what is the source of the river?

what is the source of the flood?

the drops striking me

vengeance

the quiet slowly captures me

I am lost.

The ghost of some Christmas now long past

whispers in my ear

“This won’t hurt a bit.”

 

.doc

Struggling to climb


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The gear weighs more

than the heart it is encompassing

climbing the mountain

no longer sure it is my mountain

rather

blinded by the snow

and ice

struggling

one foot in front of the other

the weight of the gear pulling

me backward

the wind pushing me backward

trying to recall

why am I struggling forward?

This is my mountain

but the footsteps

no longer fit the path that is there

can I make it

weight of what was pulling me back

the snow pushing me back

things not what they once were

are bound to what they are

can I climb this mountain?

 

.doc

To see the light


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In the darkened tunnel

the light

moves from side to side

as though a lantern carried by a drunken sailor

weaving in

and out of the tracks

no set direction

no way to go

as if a train

oncoming

at great speed

shimmying on the track as it

barrels ever forward

to crush in its path

those watching the swinging light

hypnotized by what they think they see

lost in what may be

the drunken sailor

stops to

empty his stomach of the booze and cigars

chunks of light

blowing into the air

sticking on the tunnel wall

glowing

the train

blowing past

exploding the air around us

pushing us backward

the light gone

the tunnel walls still

with an eerie glow

and I do not see the sailor anymore.

 

.doc