Half a day

That’s what I’ve decided to do today; work for half a day, and then if the skies don’t open down upon me, I want to take a long walk, like from the office all the way home with possible writing breaks along the way.

E is feeling better. Both kids will be away this weekend. M goes off with Shauné to a third friend’s weekend-long birthday celebration this afternoon. Tomorrow morning, N is off to camp overnight with his Cub Scout troop. Not sure what I’ll do this weekend, but hopefully something will pop into my mind.

Okay … I need to do some work in this half-day, which starts when I post this and ends about four hours later. So I’ll type in a couple of whitters and start doing that. I hope your Fridays are wonderful; you on the other side of the globe: I hope your Fridays were wonderful and led to grand Saturdays.

Chill
don’t worry
holding up fine
yep

Amazed
a request is ignored
just now I
never mind
it’s just one of those gray moments
know what I mean
not really

Bridges
if one more person screams
or answers someone too …
there I go again
the air conditioning is stupid
that’s all

What was that about bridges
why plural when only one will do
on a gray moment in a gray day
not as good an answer as the other one
you and they and I will sup
each in a different place
the thread drops
and so do I

~~~~~~~~~~

Parched
sere as ancient pages crumbling to dust
lost
someone’s observations but then
when we nod and recognize wisdom
isn’t it just a crystal prism
casting a different color of light on something
we know already within

Sometimes a minuet is a solo
danced by a lone figure in a large salon
lit only by shafts of light cast
by a kind setting sun
in that last flare it casts before twilight
measured steps holding only an imaginary hand
stepping in and out again
in and out
a courtly repetition inducing meditative rhythms

There she goes
her life a continuing busy day
while in a vacant and resonating hall
someone else grasps onto a stately rhythm
hope heard in remembered harpsichord notes
played liltingly and visiting from history
lift a hand as though there is a partner
small steps barely discernible
I eschew the heavy prison
of the gown required for authenticity

When the ancient texts were burned away
in the pillaging of Alexandria
how much was lost
how much wisdom was there to replace
starting from scratch
surely the philosophers by now have thought
beyond the progress stored there
illumination an art practiced by monks
renouncing and announcing human nature
not yet an oxymoron

My limbs and head grow heavy
in the dust of lost records
while my mind glides solo
across a broad and polished surface
the abandoned ballroom of childhood movie memories
because when all is revealed
folded bedclothes and tiny superscript letters
footnotes and recipes
these are where the truth lies