Spell

The marks were of precision.
They ran from stage left to right.
No one remembered 

the shortness of just hands,
the way they carried water,
the touch of the not visible life
sustained in the same way
we awoke each day and
prayed the sun up.

The televised life is a sleight.
Sparks of electricity, furious voices,
images formed from small fires.
Long lost immediacy and repetition.
Messages carried by a messenger
bringing the final message.
The thing to be extinguished.

"I hear voices," my young son said.
The subvocal is shirtless,
squinting, smoking a cigarette.
Now he wears a raincoat,
now a soft blanket over his shoulder.
Finally a dark hat pulled low.
"Don't believe everything you hear,"

He says. 

The u-turns are flocking.
Through a doorway a long look
grows, breaks the surface,
breathes, then branches down
into the source.

The look is taken in hand.

Finding the Source ?

So we, being Kim, me and kids, set out for Ewing Park yesterday.  Sugar Creek quietly slices through this little bird and butterfly watching park. And after a previous recon  involving Sierra and me we came dressed to wade the mighty creek in search of its source and encounter it's wild life. But even Kim's waders would succumb to the depths of this deceptive stream. First we encountered a  soft shell turtle the size of an eight piece pizza. I picked it up to see how far it would think it was going while practicing "air running". I quickly placed him back in the stream as Jeremiah had warned me this turtle was a snapper and it would eat us. Further upstream we encountered a beautiful butterfly that hitched a ride on Kim's butt. I later identified it as a Question Mark.

Not Kim's butt, the butterfly. . Later the kids saw what they described as a Rat snake further down stream. Jeremiah worried it was poisonous but Sierra quickly said "only if you're a rat!" Since we never reached the source of Sugar Creek we will make another expedition in the future with supplies and chips. 

An explanation

Trouble with explaining about poetry:The words are always carrying on a clandestine affair with each other, and implicating the thought.

                                                         -William Stafford

Free hand

I am running out of ways I can note my hand.

Laying it on a scale is hopeless.

Each assay takes me further away 

from what I am searching for. 

Like a forgetting, the space around it

becomes mapless, without orientation.

I am losing my hand 

or

is my hand lost?

I inquire within over and over.

 I feel like I've just 

entered another room

where I can't recall

why I came into it.

Approaching  Planck

what appears to be form

seems to be dissolving.

Hand appears and disappears,

pouring itself into emptiness.

Repeating...

Until I type this...

Discretion

Where time was on my wrist

I find a small feed.

Less time, more minding.

Wind is blowing through my palm.

I awaken to a wren tapping

on the back of my hand.

All else is so much foam,

its false iridescence sinking

slowly into the warm waters.

I sight down my arm 

feeling the weather 

climb upon my shoulder.

The feed is like a tune that

holds everything growing.

Whether it be dark pressure

or something green unfolding

what is discrete is 

becoming what I know.

Only the faint outline of

a timepiece remains.

Listen.