19 mins

I have 19 minutes to kill.  Nineteen minutes to use.  I have nineteen minutes with which I can do just about anything.  For now, I choose to write.  Why not?  That way, at least, at some point, I can relive these nineteen minutes again.   At the moment I have that untethered feeling that one gets occasionally when the world seems quite large, large enough to make it impossible to get back to the ground that you feel comfortable walking on.  But, we walk on nevertheless, despite the styrofoam under our feet.  It squeaks and shifts under our toes, so frustrating.  It requires all of one’s energy, every kilocalorie of entropy-laden metabolism just to make the scenery change.  Forging onward through the foam I go, in hopes that a like-minded soul may lie behind the next bend, willing to bear the weight of my swollen limbs until I can regain my composure.  To set a course, my friends, that is really the only thing to do now.  It’s imperative, lest we wander in this mire forever!  And… nineteen minutes… TIME!

Valentines Day

I was puzzling and puzzling,

wondering what can I do?

I looked at the wall,

for an hour or two.

I tapped all my fingers,

and fiddled about,

perplexed and befuddled,

in a spiraling spout.

And then just when all

of my thoughts did collide,

I looked to my inbox

and what did I spy?

Why i spied a small mail,

just few lines of prose,

I opened it up,

and the offer arose:

“We’ll make you a deal!

Such a wonderful deal!

Just like Cupid’s shot

this will make Schmoopy squeal!

Why for just a small fee,

we’ll take in your dough,

and turn it around

and double it’s glow!

Then the flowers you buy,

and the vase therein placed,

will be worth twice as much,

as the order you placed!

So take out your wallet,

you smitten Mad Hatter,

for Valentines Day

is no laughing matter!”

And the rest my dear friend,

well it goes without saying,

St. Valentine came,

and the harps started playing.

So the story of fretting

it ends with a grin,

and plentiful pockets

that are not quite so thin!

The Lake

The Lake

I walked for a while,
out on a frozen lake.
The sharp clarity of blues upon blue.
And I, in the middle of these layers,
a pepper speck,
a contrast in the flat light of winter.

Why does and empty world have beauty?
As people cling together,
like magnets on an icebox door,
I am here with no one,
and I am here with everything.

I could sleep in the mountain’s shadow,
for an hour?
A year?
And it would not judge my sloth,
for change comes on cat’s feet in this place.

Movement is not witnessed in moments,
but measured in months.
As ice becomes thicker,
snow becomes deeper,
and daylight fades faster.

I could sleep
in sealskin.
I could rest,
and recover.
Rethink the vanity
that is the modern mind.

Eventually these banks will be full of flowers,
Bees and bull moose will skirt the shoreline,
The bustle of midsummer madness.

But all of that lies on the other side of a circle,
a path that has always been followed,
and will continue
long after the last city cigarette has been snuffed out.

Can I afford to wait here longer,
and watch the birches shiver?
Or will the world be different when I return?