mark-rabe-180525
I journal, somewhat obsessively. Nearly every morning. The sunrise and me. I write. It rises. I have had this partnership with the rising sun since I was a wee little thing. My day is just not right if I don’t begin it writing. (And funny, the day wouldn’t be right if the sun didn’t rise!) My crises are just not solved, unless I write my way through them. My joys crave the seeming permanence of pen to paper. Fingers to keys. And over the years, I have accumulated a lot of words. A lot.

So, on occasion, I will scroll through a month’s worth of words, pick a year, pick a month, pick out phrases or sentences that strike me as interesting. Line them down a page. Keep them in tact, but rearrange them. Rearrange them again. See what happens. And there they sit. On the cusp of being poems.

Here is one. Enjoy.

and life is only a borrowing of bones
                      pablo neruda

full moon lights
my early kitchen cooling
cooler colors, calm weary
rhetoric and misnomers
unauthentic kindness
some type of reach for reverence
and reputation

I am still green tossing
and turning children swept away
to the depths below woundedness
embraced in a basement
do not smash the stones
put in your path make the messages
from your mouth kind
and kinder; fly
unburdened

“don’t give yourself away”
wet matter crashes down
from the sky
understand the connection
tears water river flow
pay more attention
to what we don’t know
whatever they ordered from this moment
did not capture me
put them in the dumpster and say
“there is no hierarchy to suffering”

stuck in my cold fingers
broken out of shells
years of drivel and treasures
the rim sucked us in
we squint jumping
back onto the bandwagon
bloated and teary
heartbreak on the itinerary

to the forest
to the lingering moon, Jupiter
still sitting by her side
just a speck
poor girl

Cusp

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