I finished writing something this morning — “They Felt It” — and felt good about it. Once I had completed it and done all the afterwork, I shut the lid of the computer and sat back…and once again felt the let down of of completing a solid piece of work and getting so little back from it.

It’ll get noticed by 10-50 people, a handful of people will like it, no one will comment for it, no one will comment against it, and tomorrow it will be ignored. I will put it into a book and someone will say they like it and within a year it will be ignored.

Meanwhile…climate change, Gaza, Biden/Trump, etc., etc., will be thrashed out…and ignored. The cost of living, the rise in housing costs, the crisis of education, the split among the parts of the country; my personal troubles, my strife in life, my struggles with all and sundry both medical and financial — all adding up to a crisis unforeseen — damnation…all will be finally swept aside and ignored. They’ll bury me somewhere and forget about me.

I know better than to ask you not to forget.

Would it be good for you —
a long time coming but still good
in a comforting way —
would it be good for you if I stopped now
and did no more of this?

What if I
stopped writing completely, let the words
sit inside me and fester
or dry up
to quite ordinary speech,
let the words tell of how to make gravy
or how to plumb? What if I
agreed to sit silent and smile
when it’s appropriate, frown when it’s not,
maintain no expression at all
when none is called for, let my face
tell stories only others have heard?

It would be a terrible joy to do that
but I am willing, I am able. It
would tear me apart but I am done
pretty much as it is — I am game
to be torn apart until I can rest.
I am ok to be rent asunder
by the need to be silent in the teeth
of all this fury, this madness; I can be
silent enough, I think, in the furor of
this brilliant chaos you call a universe.
It will be sorrow, but will be enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward.
T

Here’s “Emily’s Song.” I still can’t play it, but I am slowly getting better.

onward,
T

Blast from the past — a song from my last album. Enjoy…

Hi all —

I haven’t worked out the details yet and will likely make up the rules as I go along, but I’d like to invite you all to join my email list.

Admission is free. Just sign up from the list — contact me if there is a problem and we will puzzle it out. (There are likely to be problems up front as I am still learning on this ancient Mac, but we will get it right.)

You will get access to the Sunday exclusive poem and one download of a “thing” per month — a video, a poem…something. I don’t know what.

Bear with me, folks. After 2-3 strokes I’m still trying to get a handle on what’s doable. The Work comes first, but after that…?

Hit me up with any questions.

onward.
T

There is a memory I don’t want to accept
floating in the ether of my brain
like an island unattached to a land mass
and I know someday it will find its fastening
but for now I don’t know when

It is going to be rough but I am certain
that one day it will slip and make a mark
as if it were an island unmasked and drifting loose from its land
like a monster into diabolical predicaments
until it settles and becomes an obscure childhood tale
leaving a swollen blood trace behind where it struck

One day with only a pang of ghost pain
I will say ah yes I recall that
it’s a memory of small import
an island remote and just across the bay
I don’t want go there
it’s scrub and refuse
it doesn’t even have a name