Dreamsense

It's important,
that I look at things closely.
Though it reflects none of my poetry.
I must enter a place fully to describe it.
Discomfort is a perfect place to start.
Constructing the deep violet material
shading the borders with blue.

Yet, no need to make a big
dramatic production of it.

Walking along the levee to write poems,
trying to become sane with the stanzas,
I am puzzled.
I stop to sit cross-legged in a spot of grass
shaped like a quarter moon
on the edge of the water,
kissing moonlight.
I write for myself first,
hoarding the answers.

I used to circumvent the poetry of others,
named it an avoidance of being alone.
I no longer need to.
Now I eat it by the gallon with the
most enormous ice cream scooper,
I can unearth from my drawer of stuff
I see things more closely,
basking sleepily in the sun of late day.
open my senses, listen and laugh,
touch the ground under
live without fully being there.
When I'm fully present
I get so caught up in the "once."

“Once,” I felt a poet friend's enormous wave of pity
for "people like me."¨
She said, "you need to define the end of simple civility."
I searched for a response, emblematic of me.
My silence froze the early morning sun
"You got something, you don't want it,
but you just can't let go," she said.
“All your yesterdays are tomorrows,
that doesn't happen to everybody,
take advantage of it.”
She had the sixth sense,
dreamsense, I call it.

Still, no need to make
a dramatic production of it.

11/19/2012

Posted on 11/20/2012
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