He sits at his stump-desk
as though the forest appointed him
keeper of its minor truths~
wire-rimmed glasses catching the low light,
plaid bowtie knotted with intention.
The wooden laptop waits,
open to whatever thought
the morning has not yet named.
Coffee steams beside the inkwell,
papers scattered like fallen leaves
he has already begun to translate.
Even the landline, absurd in its presence,
seems to understand
that calls here are rare
but always important.
The uncracked pecans rest beside his papers,
not symbolic, simply present~
a reminder that some work
starts with the smallest,
most ordinary labor of the hands.
He studies the papers strewn around him,
each marked with the faint trace
of earlier attempts at order.
For a moment he simply reads,
letting the work tell him
where to begin.
The sun demands the waking world look back,
But silver doors slide open in the dark;
An uncracked stone, a vessel kept intact,
Reveals a void where hidden planets arc.
From salted depths, the ancient spirits rise,
A bridge of silver scales across the blue,
While silent strangers watch from foreign skies,
And cosmic chaos turns to order true.
Upon the sand I stand without alarm,
A quiet anchor in the shifting night,
Enfolded in a grand, celestial charm,
To watch the hidden world ascend to light:
We are not lonely keepers of the stone;
The myths are real, and we are not alone.
Candide Diderot. '26
visions and thoughts from a lucid dream - 11/08/26...
STORIES IN POTTERY
Bluebirds above the azure lakes
Burleigh cups - willow pattern trees in gold leaf -
Once with mashed Sichuan oolong,
And on their side plates, shortbread tiffin,
While nephews in white laughed loudly and played tennis on the lawn.
George V Silver Jubilee mug and plate (1910-1935)
Found by slum clearance machines
In a small kitchen overlooking the slipway at Wallsend -
The mug was dropped once and chipped
On the stone floor, toasting the returned Mauretania -
The plate was never used again,
The Mauretania was never used again.
Chipped but uncracked ; dust coated, but loved.
Shapes and pictures that hold more than hot tea.
Saucers deep and smooth, or shallow and scalloped
With painted delicate petals.
With oolong long cooled,
Cups with flared bell-mouths buried
Under crumpled newspaper stuffed
In soapboxes advertising Daz flakes
innocence
that inherent quality that shines forth for all to perceive -
innocence that begs of nievety
uncracked by the jagged edges of a life well used (or not)
innocence
a way of being that somehow I aspire to
innocence in the face of the all knowing
give me the simple life (it's easier)
innocence
endearing to those who are aware of this quality perhaps
innocence
usually found in infants and children
can also be found
where you find it.
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