Poezja

Through an open window
these eyes behold
pinches of wisdom
sprinkled on a poem.

Rewinding the road
separating work from home,
it's settings betwixt and between.
Rehearsing for the stage,
I turned into a dream,
reflecting:

'an image is not easy to create,
but once made, difficult to break,
effecting our roles, what to uphold,
what we let go.'

Coming home,
thoughts of being alone,
turned off the radio, t.v.
and the telephone.

No expectations,
trials or tribulations,

Just me on me,
Deprogramming.

Like a saxophone player who missed his cues,
turning jazz into the blues,

yesterday,
the rain clouds were overburdened,
little cause for celebration.

Teardrops
invoked shockwave echoes
rolling out of the singing bowl
of the cosmos:

'Our thoughts create a spell,
sending our minds spiraling
on a journey to either
heaven or hell.'

Waking up on the other side of the rainbow,
like Chuang Tsu's butterfly, I no longer knew,
was I the midwife? The leavening of the bread?
The coffee roll down at the local Greasy Spoon?

Or Deja Vu, am I you?

These feasting eyes peering through
an open window,
forgetting again
what they once knew.