Where do all the people go,
The ones who share the road?
For certainly not everyone
Is in vacation mode.
Are they visiting a relative
Or dropping in on friends?
Maybe off to work or out to shop?
The traffic never ends.
I wish that I could stop each car
And take a little poll,
But certainly such action
Would exact a heavy toll.
For the last thing that is needed
Is to interrupt the flow,
So as far as where they’re headed,
Well, I guess I’ll never know.
the subject of my attention -
how I turn you over and over in my head and hands
gaining more focus
on my own mind's form and function
though in truth
the whole world and I can disappear
if I give you thought
but yet - you are tangible
can interrupt the space
between universe and fingertips
remind me that I am also real
perhaps, if I'm honest
I long to look up
and meet the eye
of the person who wonders
what I'm thinking
Inspired by The Necklace - Waterhouse
—On What Remains—
"When did he leave?" my brother asked, as we whitewashed the fence.
I stopped, watched fresh paint disappear into the grain, torn
between what I believed was true and what I thought
might be. I wasn't sure. "Well?" *"I think we brought
him farther than we knew."* "Go on."
He turned the radio off. Silence. All autumn long,
the house had answered every sound with one withdrawn
echo, while all my thoughts had wrestled down the fraught
when-did-he-leave
question. Crushing "then!" Whispering "not." That it was wrong
to search for someone only where the body's gone.
One day your own hands will interrupt you with someone else's certainty.
My brother began to carve the bread. *"You'll sort
it out. Let's eat."* "But the fence..." *"...can wait. Look, I've brought
your favourite pie."* And the evening wind moved through the pickets,
painting both sides at once.
"When did he leave?"
Flickering, gentle light,
that comes and chains itself to the ground,
slips through the forest like a trespasser
to lick the pond that consoles itself.
The trees step aside, modest,
lifting their heads toward the sky
so they won’t interrupt the picnic
that the light offers to its beloved.
But the light leaves.
You cannot fall asleep,
so the forest tightens around you
to keep you from suffering.
I search for my heart, unarmed,
a clearing to tame,
a pond where my tears may drown,
far from everything, far from harm, where joy is remade.
Joël Charvillat
I’m in touch with my earnest feelings,
delight, pleasure, elation, gladness,
each day I awake to sunshine,
is’nt it such a grand privilege,
which I now deeply cherish,
for eternal moment lodging,
without inhibition or delay,
or at random point of reference,
other than to pause and gaze,
in burghs, hubs, alleys, drives,
to treasure, revel in, foster
gatherings of cordial folk,
who sense fellow inklings,
that impromptu golden spark,
of hobby, post, humour, zeal,
as time that astute passerby,
non judgemental watcher,
sentient in its observance,
does not dare to cut across,
interrupt or belittle magic,
on the hour instant interaction,
vital for searcher’s true quest
Why does everyone drive the same car you do?
I never noticed blue cars before
But now they’re everywhere
I’m looking for fragments of you in crowded parking lots
Slowing down at intersections and glancing into oncoming traffic
Every windshield has my attention until it reveals a stranger’s face
Every blue car becomes a question
Every one becomes hope that lives for a second
I find myself searching for you without intention
But I’m microdosing disappointment
Because it’s rarely you
This small town has too many versions of blue
And every one makes my heart speed up
Just a glance
A smile
A silhouette
The knowing you saw me too
And hoping the thought of me lingered
I wonder if I accidentally interrupt your day the same way you do mine
Have your eyes ever searched for the orange?
Only to realize
It was just another stranger headed somewhere
And wasn’t me
Maybe you don’t search for me at all
Or maybe you do
I’ll probably never know
And maybe there aren’t that many blue cars
Maybe once you’ve loved someone
The world starts painting itself in their colors
The cat cries out as he wanders
through my bedroom. He can’t
understand why he can’t go out
for another time—I can’t explain.
He goes into the kitchen and looks
up to people in conversation standing
at a countertop. We’ve filled his
food and water dished. He cries out,
I don’t understand.
He comes to me
and I scratch his neck while flipping
through You Tube videos. The next
moment he jumps onto a tote and cleans
himself. Someone online asks for a poem
about cats
[I look to him]
Two years ago
someone brought him in a cage
[He looked at me, I looked at him]
Oh no, I said.
I never knew I was a cat person
but he chose me.
As he cries to go out, I say to him
why don’t you keep me company
as if he’s a child, and maybe in some way
he is. I interrupt what I’m doing
to clean his litter
a duty to dread and embrace.
I sit down to read and ease the night
[and he finds my lap]
I feel his warmth.
Raindrops on my cheeks, tap dancing,
hit my face before off they're glancing,
to here and over there.
The damn things
just frizz up my hair.
Raindrops like to do the foxtrot.
Six-point landings, splash and whatnot,
on my nose and in my eyes,
they sometimes come
as a surprise.
Raindrops interrupt the sun
in case its having too much fun.
It likes to come, only to go,
it's just an April shower
you know.
I think the first sign, at least to my mother,
was at the age of five
when I broke half the bones in my right hand
and did not shed a single tear.
I did not even pause long enough
for the pain to be considered an event.
I simply carried on with my day,
until she noticed the unusual swelling softening
the lines of my delicate hand.
She searched my face for agony -
for some proof that I remained tethered
to the ordinary laws of suffering.
But I only watched the swelling bloom beneath my skin,
with the detached curiosity
of a child watching daisies open in a spring field.
She stared at me then,
as though she had glimpsed something
standing behind my eyes:
a creature that had learned to consume pain
as casually as sugar dissolves on the tongue.
Perhaps the fracture was indistinguishable
from what I had already been taught to endure,
Perhaps it was far easier to bear
than the violence that lived unspoken within my mind.
Or perhaps it was simpler still:
I no longer found difference between agony and living.
One did not interrupt the other.
They had learned to coexist —
indistinguishable,
unremarkable,
one.
My daughter my best friend, autism does not define her, sweet, funny, a spirit so full of life, she has such a joy so full of life. While as her mom I cannot deny..
While I was tracing maps of fear,
Her upbeat heart made heaven near.
That smile, a gift she freely gives,
Is proof of how the Spirit lives.
Not bound by labels, jobs, or walls,
She hears the song that mercy calls.
A bubbling brook, a radiant grace,
I see God’s kindness in her face.
Animals, both extinct and alive I dare anyone to test her of her knowledge, while watching fish, turtles, ducks while sitting upon her favorite dock, sipping lemonade on a bright sunny day.
Thus is how she sees our Heavenly Fathers love, who am I to interrupt, if only I could make today’s society see her potential, please God help me here, I cannot bear to think, she will still someday, leave from under my wing, to live where we won’t be there to protect her.
As I dry my tears, I can hear her funny laugh, her ear to ear smile, someone has caught a huge fish, snappy the turtle has made a appearance, Jesus thank you for sending forth your creation, to remind me that I need not worry, You are in charge, thank you.
when lightning struck all fuses melted in the fire
no more circuit breakers to interrupt the inevitable
stillness loneliness darkness and necessary change
reflections without light can be very illuminating
at first the images showed shattered past and emptiness
fear of whether a mosaic of joy could ever reemerge
doubts and resentments clouded sound judgement
while emotions played inner tunes of havoc and angst
and yet as introspection reached out to a future
tentative sounds of happiness crept in once again
only he himself would shed the load of the past
and loosen the weight in his body mind and spirit
You Aren’t Listening
You Just Make Words
Into Ghosts Of They...
What They Once Were.
There, Like You
Interrupt Again...
There The Breeze,
There The Tide...
Interrupted! Ignored
Like Soil Contorted,
Melded In, Like A
Spatula Spoon,
Like A Whisk...
Soft And Smooth
Of The Married Sky
Earth... Unyielding.
There From Soil Again,
Un-Earthed, Rooted
Rising Through Cells
To Nerves, To Reputation's
Ape... Reborn To The
Concourse Spoken Out
In The Blackness...
Not Alone.
Shut-Up And Listen.
-Gray Squirrel
03-23-2026
When your mind engages in some delighted thought,
and sudden wonder plays across your face,
no shadow, no question, no fleeting doubt
could interrupt that moment’s grace.
Your eyes, with wonder filled, your eyes do fill with light,
mirroring the halo of heaven playing in your smile,
so anyone with eyes to see emerges from the common night
to occupy eternity for that breathless while.
“God hath given you one face,”
sister, daughter, wife and mother:
not even Vermeer could hope to trace
let alone paint you such another.
Christopher M. Swan, “Song of Susan,” 2008
I live a dream no one can see
Awakening doesn’t interrupt it
This dream meanders seamlessly
Like chapters in the manuscript
I haven’t finished reading, though
I can rewrite some episodes
The most important ones, to show
That I’m still on a boat that floats
Out in the sea, but the next day
I’m waking on a landing plane
I’m always coming home to say
How much I love you, but again
I fail my little home to find
But your sweet breath I feel quite near
You could’ve hugged me from behind
But neither you nor I are here..
Upon opening the dusty spruce door,
I am greeted by an old friend.
Charming woman, full of life and eager to chat.
As we entered her office, the soft brown couch was as tempting as ever.
Her oak roll top desk was neatly clean, her room had the aesthetic of a beach house.
After a few years of missed appointments, I feel ready to chat with her once more.
The faint sounds of rush hour traffic echoed in the distance.
Talking about my mornings, and memories I avoid naming, I confess what I’m willing to share.
She pauses, reflects, then softly speaks.
“I’m glad you didn’t, I’ve thought about you several times over the last couple of years.”
I force a soft smile.
It’s not easy explaining the sentences I stop myself from finishing.
This sealed vessel, there is no use for a broken sword.
However, she’s always kept her door open for me.
She’s the only one who listens and doesn’t interrupt me.
As our time came to an end for the day,
I thanked her for donating her time to see me.
As I get ready to leave,
All I can do is think of how comfortable the couch feels.
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