Restless Mind

Restless mind, restless soul,

Restless body, restless hole,

At the sole of the basis

Of the that which makes me whole,

What’s a restless mind and body

S’posed to do about its soul?


And the next door hypothetical

Recipients of this meager

Self-writ note,

Are impervious to realizing

That I sit or that I

Tote, the utensils

That jot and illustrate

The that which I hath wrote,

For though they are my distant

Friends I lament

That they’re remote,

Or maybe I am I confess

As these words, escape my

Chest and now I sit

here late at night

without fear, and

without spite,

I just sit here restless, listlessly,
and remember fairly insistently,

The persistence of these

consistent misfit moments,

and contextualize all that

I certainly can’t despise

And so try to analogize,

Appropriate synechdoches

Attempting to adapt and

Feed on the spinning

World that is current and

Abounds and all I do

Is make wretched

 Sounds, for now it

Is quite late at night,

But I’ll match my neighbours,

And without spite! 

It Started In A Garden

It started in a garden,
I read it in a book,
The ink was pressed down soil,
The pages made of mulch.

An evacuated aroma,
The pungency of sound,
In the garden where things started,
To be permissed or disallowed.

And the flocks that would unravel,
Down uncharted consequence and time,
But let’s all remember gardens,
The stadium of life.

Janitorial microbes,
Dusting off apparent dust,
So clever and yet guiltless,
And deserving all our trust.

The unity perceived,
Feels so sacred and so whole,
One might feel inspired,
To take up a rural pen…

And share what feels as though
It could be delivered from above.

I yelled to my friend,
“What did you say?”
And he said something about God.