Fallen Then The Smitten Hand...

 Think I'll put down three poems as a post.  Not doing no writing at all.  I should discipline myself to do one month of blogging, just to be doing something.  One month would be enough.  I don't want to do a lot, it's hard work, but I would like to get off mental dead center and at least feel like I was breathing in and out.

I took the road less traveled by.
No choice;
Not straight, but straightly forced;
From youth, in all its brambled turning,
No other way;
Behind, the path clear-cut,
Ahead, no path at all.
Unwavering mystery.
Forward!
Another bramble hewn.


Fifty years in the garbage bin
--It's not intent, it's knowing--
Everybody's dead.
Why pine?  Nostalgia?
What's remembered?  No one's there.
With no one there there's nothing.
Gone.
   Back to the woods, a boy,
   My dog and I,
   to roam and watch and be.
   We two are real.
From someplace something comes;
What once had come is gone;
We'll try it twice.


I want at least to touch,
To touch, and know I've touched
once more;
Fallen then the smitten hand
That parsed creation.
I would I lived there.
  It's not for men,
  It's a reach only --ever.

I don't understand this odd orientation that produces poems.  I don't work at these things, they just appear.  Sometimes they appear in final form, sometimes over the course of hours ideas come and words are changed.  But I never work at it, I'm always doing other things.  It's always something subterranean that's doing the work, I only write words down.

May later write my own reflections on Tucson.  It would only be a personal statement, nothing more can be added.

Note: I've closed access to Three Day Post.  If I do start linking again I'll get a few readers.  I don't want to have to explain an involuntary-memory love affair.  Too weird.  Weird yet even though I've now passed through it.