Well, at least they're not Obscene Mutterings...(well, not yet)

Okay, so you've all gotten sick of checking my blog only to find nothing but the original post. AND you've ALL mentioned it at one time or another. Fine. Okay. I'll keep it better updated, sheesh.

It's not like there's nothing swirling around in my gourd. There is. It just has a little difficulty emerging from the security of my dome. Particularly in a somewhat permanent form. The permanence of blogging is ultimately doubtful, considering how fast technology changes. Chances are that my paper journal may be read long after my death (yeah, right - getting a little full of yourself here), but this blog will have vanished into cyberspace (or whatever they'll call it in 50 years or so) during my lifetime. The difference, however is just that: people are reading this while I am alive (with my incitement), and so some circumspection is required (not my strong suit, I admit).

I am not a prolific journal keeper. In the 20 years I've had my journal I've filled precisely 28 pages, one of which is a calligraphy exercise using the cormorant feather (carefully trimmed - Society for Creative Anachronism, here I come) I picked up on the beach in the Magdalen Islands almost or more than 2 years ago. The gaps between the entries span years if not decades, and the content is, well let's just say rather juvenile. Why would anyone keep such a complete collection of random mental sputum? Well, as a handwriting analysis exercise, it's kinda handy. After all, you get the state of mind along with the handwriting. You know: like a Rosetta stone, just not so historically significant.

I am also not a prolific poet. I am also not a particularly good poet. However, I occasionally do write poems (or as pronounced on Sesame Street: Po-Em) for my own amusement which are not so terrible that I cannot share them with you. Beware: this blog is not a poetry free zone. You can expect to encounter flurries of verse, sometimes even in iambic pentameter. You do not of course have to read everything I post. You can skip any and all poetry, as you like.

So that being said, here are two relatively recent ones (Winter 1997) for your enjoyment or vilification, whichever turns your crank.

Reflection

Paddle dips.
Bow slices.
Water curls beneath me,
as I slip over the mirror of time.

Shadow runs.
Rock sits.
Sand shifts beneath me,
as I slip over the mirror of time.

Wind flows.
Tree bends.
Leaf sinks beneath me,
as I slip over the mirror of time.

Paddle dips.
Bow slices.
Light fades around me,
as I slip into the mirror of time.

Vortex

Staccato rush of an unfit window
Invites a sudden silence of snow.

Velvet lidded night
mimes turbulence with feather strokes.

Dancing air without
drifts, opening the depths of cold.

Eddy of ice fire
engulfs in speechless wonder.