Or the abstract form
Would you rather find a meaner muse
It was more than a ruse
Yet how did it lose its way
Would you prefer to cruise
Without paying your dues
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Or the abstract form
Would you rather find a meaner muse
It was more than a ruse
Yet how did it lose its way
Would you prefer to cruise
Without paying your dues
Love Working With Who You Are
Did one lead
Did one follow
Did one make life clear
Did one leave a life confused
Spaces, between faces
Lines in the sand
Will you wait for me
Will I wait for you
A longer stretch
Approaching a biography
Dipping in
Dripping out
Did you notice my discomfort
Did I notice yours
The yin and the yang of it
The tick and the tock of it
Chases, between places
Defined by plans
Will you hesitate for me
Will I be obdurate for you
A car drives by
Soon its sound is gone
The kitchen tap drips
I wait for the next drop
My lead scratches the paper
I cannot keep it quiet
Yet I may soon silence it completely
My thoughts buzz
That is you in my subconscious
The walls are free of wallpaper
Instead they are adorned
With copies of impressionist masters
Portraits in imitation gilt frames
There are electric candle-lights
To illuminate the Roman numerals
A fresh tilt
At belief
A new understanding
Of how things lie
Am I to be manipulated
To become manipulative
To begin
By rearranging reality
Is this what Cezanne saw
Each morning
Looking out
Towards Blue Mountain
Was the snow
Through the rows of aspen
So secretly white
So serenely drifting