It's Been a Long Time

My wanderlust
mimics occupation.
Seemingly a dream
of new days coming.
For my soul's body
makes apparent
some of Life is genetic
in my understanding.

mimicking occupation
are children
learning by observing
practicing by play
until big enough for pay

Seemingly a dream
life is a beach
I crawled up on
from catastrophe at sea
onto isolated island
with mostly beasts
for company
with nothing to mimick
in occupation
except animals I perceive.

New days come,
in agony I weep
from silent peace,
gray days and black nights
haunted by figments
of light and shadow
playing across imaginations
as I listen
from the room with a view
to wide seas breaking
upon my shore
and rain pelting my roof
in my narrow harbor

My soul's body
is defective
but its all I got
and so I clothe it
in privacy to protect
and jealously guard chapt skin
This I must make last
for a lifetime
like the quart jars
swaddled in macrame
I refill each rain.

Apparently,
I could leave
anytime I want
but lacking RFID chip
under palm skin
grocery doors won't open,
tills won't ring.
Some people with ocular bionics
can't even see me
I have most of what I need, here
except people
And anyway,
I can't run away
from myself in any case
except by mini-vacation.
Me, always seems to catch up
whether or not I look back.
And the beer isn't completely shit

Some of Life is genetic
imparted by eons of evolution
of Man struggling with Nature
but also against Markets and Industry
as paths we trod determine survival
of both path and camper
whether or not destination
is truthful and beautiful
for our health, wealth,
ingenuity, and acceptance

Understanding this,
I sit alone
in comfort of radio
watching time lap
upon shores of wooded forest
from inside insulated box
with company of chickadee
and it's occasional calling fee-bee
as winter latches lickety-split
onto shackles of my cigarette.

It's been a long time since shipwreck,
and having learned to observe
I crawl up
on gray days and black nights
that last lifetimes, it seems,
broken only by mini-vacation
as a path I trod for survival
in shores of wooded forest.

In Language of Souls

A Lark harkens to the laughter inside
the thoughts and emotions leading to which instead.
We work and fork reality led, to peddle faster
down rolling hills laughing-


at least alive

and that laughter sharing our souls embrace
alights like starlings on branches space
There is no thing, no boson of fun
but the laughter and companionship
rolls round our head, in effusive
collaborative creation fashioned
a language of souls like trees talking to dead
a synergy, a chemistry, a synthesis of energy
in networks of language, Like English! we live

so starlings perch

though I should predicate
that navel gazing can take all day
just as one can poke fence posts in rows
for birds to arrange notes and chime tides of light
calling hours solemn or sparkled
A lark or a starling childs of morn

and poets pontificate


As ordained ministers of truth and beauty
in the houses of lords
like said masters of hawthorne
License granted by proof of effort
we marry truth and beauty
and divorce hate and war
Wishing Merry or Forlorn
to share a piece of themselves
Like said Starling in the language of souls
simply communing, simply us.