Signal quality
is something I still associate
with radio sets on island chains
trying to make contact with command.
My cell phone is block, a brick
a tool I use for basic functions
even as I think of grass huts and
hidden wires making antennas.
The console, the telegraph
all crowd my memory from times
I never knew, but vivid in mind
from coastwatchers, Resistance fighters, Quonsets.
For me a day of births & deaths
One nearer in family
Another close in spirit.
Born this day, a child of 1927
Died this day, in 1866
Either one I find near to what
Traces for me a path
Leading to the present
I am trying to myself to interpret.
I want to die, the Sybil said
a dwindling, fading voice.
No hope for life
nor dream of death
within her fated choice.
Words do not sum up
the definitions we have
for the understanding we seek.
Another way to define
concepts and interpretations
is through art, which is weak
Not in too little meaning
shared and seen to the eye
but the chaos we wreak
Mixing images and reason
into a narrative
swerving from colorful to bleak
A structure which
cannot stand in even modest winds
without groans and an occasional creak
Are you sure, he said? Wondering about her hoping she isn't as worried as she sounds. No, not really, she replied. Knowing he isn't as interested as he's trying to sound.
Evenings I sort through regrets
& toss them into my dreams
to see what images & outcomes they create.
Mornings I've doubts,
but ideas still hover
uncompleted, in a muddled sort of state.
The things I've done and what I've yet to do
they need to be divided
between early & late.
