Category: A Daily Poem

I could sit and sip my tea from its cup
trying to think or to see
like a tree.

Now, I crave something,
then I'll make it or buy it.
I eat nostalgia.

I have two neighbors, who both, it seems,
like to make noise. One plays keyboard,
repeating the same bland tune.
The other cleans her floor
with a rattling
floor sweeper thing.
Today, they
were in
sync.

Snow has fallen all around us.
Humans make their patterns:
Clear a path here, pile it slightly…
whitish drapes in tatters.

Right on the edge of the night, the dawn stalks,
perhaps turning time finite,
the sky white.

[daily log: walking, 8km]

Happiness an abstract yearning…
wonder what it means.
Then you know the world is turning,
seeing how time's engine's burning,
mood is caught, careens.

If you write down enough words, taking care
to craft them, at last some verbs
become birds.

Try to dream a world? I can't.
Nothing comes. A world is vast.

Clouds of crystalline and silver
breathe across the landscapes, crafting
angels made of sunlight.

No movement. No snow.
Stars. Cold air. Bitter wind. Stones.
Ice on the sidewalk.

A bowl of noodles suggests stability.
But it's not so stable. They get eaten.

[daily log: walking, 1km]

What city is this?
Chaos made of many streets.
A strip of cold grass.

sounds
that fail
to form words,
but just spill out
like torrential rain -
at some moments quiet
incoherent murmurings,
but then drumming against the walls,
aggressive, challenging all meanings

The moon is orange.
Not quite full. Autumn waning...
Frost lines the puddles.

So I left my home to walk to work,
saw wayward puffs of snow, spinning
and dancing in the strong wind.
A gray sky added rain.
The rain turned to snow
then turned to rain
turned to snow
turned to
rain.

With my angry words deployed, and yelling,
I ranted like some annoyed,
mad android.

All-seeing: alligator hovering,
like some god-like creator,
but greater.

Around me, the world unfurls itself.
I watch with curiosity:
Colors are bright and sublime,
people speak streams of words,
always new meanings.
But when I eat,
it's so sad:
food is
bland.

Sometimes sleep comes but then leaves just as fast,
and I'm left with what night weaves...
the mind grieves.

[daily log: walking, 7.5km]

with devastation the gods showed their wrath
till only dust remained, and drifted bits
of snow were heaped at time's old edges then.

The sky's fingers reach
down, grasping trees winter's stripped
to desolation.

the hills are dull, like metal surfaces
impossible to burnish, impossible.

(Poem #484 on new numbering scheme)

and now i have become dissatisfied
with how i number all these little poems.
perhaps a change could be created soon
to leave it all confused, disjoint, and new.

(Poem #483 on new numbering scheme)

light
reveals
what's hidden
among atoms
and up in the trees
tracing fractal motions
distorted undulations
aimless disquisitions of form
leaves, for example, caught in the wind.

(Poem #481 on new numbering scheme)

The air was biting
the bones of trees. The winter
had come to freeze all.

(Poem #480 on new numbering scheme)

and she was sitting there, like happy,
and, like, not a care in the world,
and she goes, like, "whatever,"
and she holds her hand out,
and she's smiling, too,
and I agree,
and, well, see,
and then,
and...

(Poem #479 on new numbering scheme)

Words spill out like cars on a highway.
They spin swirls, like oil on water.
Rising up, they take on birds.
They mumble to themselves.
And problems emerge.
Difficult words.
Confusing.
Gentle.
Stop.

(Poem #478 on new numbering scheme)

What color is dawn?
How does it contrast with night?
Today, it is gray.

(Poem #477 on new numbering scheme)

Snow:
drifting
through the air
but not sticking
to anything, just
making big promises
and icy atmospherics
which no one can appreciate
because they don't like feeling so cold.

(Poem #476 on new numbering scheme)

Red-robed rogues rumble reductive rhetoric rhotically.
Relatedly, robots rule regions, run rhinoceros races.