Wasn’t there something I wanted to write?
Maybe if so I forgot.
Seems I received dreaming scenes all last night.
Questing back now? Maybe not.
Wasn’t there something I wanted to say?
Often I harbor a lot.
Possibly I will be quiet today.
That’s all I have now to jot.
The contrast was so sharp, I can’t ignore
sensations I collected those 2 days.
On Saturday I opted to explore
on shaded grass some mortuary ways.
At Sunday’s street fair there was so much more
to take in – people, music, sale displays.
The first was comfort gentle and impressive.
The other felt obnoxiously aggressive.
Reporting to some loved ones facts I heard
that may apply but need to percolate,
and then of relatives bestowing word,
the hours served to overstimulate.
With insufficient rest, I rose to play
with children: sweet but tiring, no dispute
but lots of volume. Toting love my stay
then ended, and I started my commute.
Two-thirds of that proceeded smoothly, till
I surfaced for the final leg, the bus.
Some crime occurred and cops arrived to fill
three times the normal minutes with their fuss.
At last I was released and I could flee
to home, to find I couldn’t find my key.
Unruly Behavior Can Ruin a Ride.
I spotted the sign Saturday.
I pulled out my phone and shot what I espied –
good dactyls – then went on my way.
I wanted a topic for Sunday, and thought
I couldn’t do better than this.
The syllables sang to me, gifted, unsought –
ignoring them I’d be remiss.
It took me time to fall asleep last night.
My tender throat inspired mortal thought,
and talk about emotional insight
and mysteries of medicine had brought
disturbed considerations into light.
I didn’t feel exactly overwrought,
but comfort in the bed eluded me
until the clock read some time after 3.
Five households occupy this one address.
We share the water service, and today
a plumber will shut off the main access.
I don’t know when the interrupt will stay
my water use; I suffer pre-distress.
Deliberately I shuffle tasks, delay
what’s waterless till early afternoon.
I wouldn’t have done well on Herbert’s Dune.
It shouldn’t irritate me very much,
but sloppy use of language hurts my mood.
I read “more than fair share,” regarding such
misfortunes as a chronic lack of food,
surplus of grief, and tragedies that touch
the soul attacking peace in attitude.
Of course a lengthy life contains a share
of bad, but there’s no quantity that’s fair.
We came upon him crying on the couch,
his posture slumping forward and his face
hair-hidden. We turned walking to a crouch
around his curving frame, to strong-embrace
our adolescent, murmur comfort, place
good words in air, and confidence-assign.
We lit with love and nearly missed the trace –
he sits like a canary in this mine.
I plan to interrupt this streak in weeks.
On August 20th I shall depart.
And though I will be practicing techniques,
my time will go to gathering, from start
to homecoming, each episode that tweaks
attention, and the feelings in my heart.
I’ll let impressions, fertilized to bloom,
infuse the atmosphere when I resume.
I can’t remember when I’ve liked a crowd,
and street fairs may repel me most of all.
I don’t like saunters in the sun, and loud
effects from people cause my skin to crawl.
There’s insufficient shade. I don’t recall
occasions comfortable or worth the while.
I’m nervous and my spirit starts to fall,
as loneliness seeps in to stall my smile.
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