burled walnut
handsome to the hand
tactile poetry
From my books Bohemian Scents and Riverthink
mementoes in a tiny museum
souvenirs of small moments
shiny stones fluted seashells
retained bits and baubles
quiet with personal histories
habits collected in childhood
displayed in their sentiments
carried by years into manhood
emotional artifacts telling brief
tales of diminutive journeys
now at prominent rest beneath
glass in the parlor available
handy to curious eyes seeking
insight from biograph markers
these temporal timeworn and
much caressed objects whose
conscious display reveals clues
to the heart of a taciturn man
From my book Ephemera
a chair no one sits
at a table set for tears
war’s furniture
(originally posted November 2013)
burled walnut
handsome to the hand
tactile poetry
blue white-tufted skies
bird-speckled sun-flecked woodlands
rocking chair pleasures
unresolved traumas
haunt my nightstand
half-spirits exhaled by
my incomplete dreams
a museum of residues
piecemeal imaginings
figment planchettes
point to unfinished
spellings of stories
too old to endure
a continuing sleep
undisturbed from
beginning to end
birth to death now
denied no more
wholes to embrace
as I once did in
province of youth
fits and starts are
new norm broken
paths to unknown
destinations concealed
from my conjure
like poems chopped
mid-stanza drop
words disarticulate
into the cherrywood
drawer with my gun
among inchoate ghosts
articulate octagon
speaking of time
annunciates crisp
startling ticks each
alone in its moment
creating a standstill
of silence to separate
one from the other
effective detachments
a series of movements
a marching in circles
precise of a progress
escapement attuned
to invisible action
of gravity pulling
young life stop-and-go
stop-and-go through
the sway-weight of
seconds of minutes
that mark out the
schoolhouse experience
leaving their lasting
impressions on minds
unaware just how much
they’ll remember
mementoes in a tiny museum
souvenirs of small moments
shiny stones fluted seashells
retained bits and baubles
quiet with personal histories
habits collected in childhood
displayed in their sentiments
carried by years into manhood
emotional artifacts telling brief
tales of diminutive journeys
now at prominent rest beneath
glass in the parlor available
handy to curious eyes seeking
insight from biograph markers
these temporal timeworn and
much caressed objects whose
conscious display reveals clues
to the heart of a taciturn man
no rest for the crazy
compelled to bide runaway
days in beds black as obsidian
heaving itself through
wrought curlicue shadows
it races through channels
that penetrate nights
soundless restless and
reckless its feet melt
in puddles of madness
while porcelain finials
spin with the heat
of an inhuman speed
the whole hurtling mass
on burn-to-ash course
with its conscious cadaver
to charnels no soul
ever chose or survived
no rest for the crazy
compelled to ride runaway
sleep into nightly oblivion
Writer Lynne Sargent
Poetry Puttering by Pax & Company
Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that small, bright, and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. David Whyte
"drink from the well of your self and begin again" ~charles bukowski
no dust here
Looking ahead, without looking back (too often)
flights of fancy from New Zealand
You're never alone, if you've something to share
All you touch and all you see / is all your life will ever be
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I am where the valleys are deep, the mountains are high, and the wind moans through trees...
rejuvenatement - not retirement