Sit on that bench awhile
Look up at that sky
Listen to the birds call
Imagine what they talk about
Early one morning when you’re feeling glad
Grateful just to be still around
Lace up your boots and start walking
Up around the corner
Climb some hill
Take that stick waiting
There among the ferns
Grip it like a sheep herder
Like some old woman or man
Yes, keep on moving
But pause for breath too
There is time enough for everything
If you value the precious in you
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How long
I’ve lived already
barely
realizing the quiet quite obvious:
inspiration
means breathing in
while conscious.
I aspire now
to more than
mere presence.
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If you listen
you can hear it soft in the distance
a harp or a flutter of wings
song of wind against fragile leaves
whisper of velvet rain in trees
light as breath
clear as waterdrops
of icicles in spring.
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Sundays I move quiet
through house street wood
listening for birdsong
wave off voices of what should
Sundays I step slow
close observe neighbourhood
Sunday time
sunrise to dreamline—
all mine.
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I saw deer
snowfield shadows grazing
sunset purple
mountains as backdrop
my camera my camera—
They lingered stop motion soft
while I stood quiet.
Watching.
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Today I breathe
no politics: pause
between raindrops
read Dawkins
pet my unherdable cat
ponder dullard’s laundry.
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Leave Meaning
unpursued.
Inhale words
Hear music
Watch image dances
Touch patterns
Hum in harmony
Leave meaning
and its secrets
to peaceful slumber.
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Pencil on paper. Images arise. Message received.