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Monday, April 14, 2014


 Wayne Thiebaud


In a rage to know all things,
Or as many things as it is possible
To know when one is eleven years old.

The divine walking amongst
Our friends, choosing this one
And that one, taking them away.

Unlacing their memories,
Giving their recognition of others
To the winds, to the birds,
Both flying away in a flurry of noise.

Electrical storms across the brain
At any time; just sitting there,
Getting out of bed, walking from one
Room to another.

All that was familiar
Suddenly not at all

Time without borders.
Anything could happen
At any instant,
Or perhaps not happen at all.

Waking from a summer nap.
The light, enchanting, over everything,
Temperature and sound engaged
In a magnificence of waking.
The world, yes!

Rulers of the mind,
All chemicals and fires
In the neurons and synapses.

More and more information
Beyond explanation.
The half-remarkable question:
"What is it that we are part of,
And what is it that we are?"


The delight of the dance,
The endless business of water.
That which is love,
Beneath the stars,
Inside all of sleeping,
Surrounded by its
Insistence on forever

Waking once again in the same
Room. Still here upon the Earth.
Doing things that become familiar,
To us. No longer surprised
By every act, by each event.

Moving through the day,
Learning laughter and
Helping one another to
Understand how something
Works. Finding the old
Language, the color, the

Limited means of expression.

Sunday, April 13, 2014


 Frank Richardson


The wind, in from the desert,
Ruined from running through
The litany of winter, barely able
To speak.  Still, now it attempts
To say your name.  Blows through
The vowel sounds, leaving them
In the trees.  chases birds across
Alfalfa.  Their bodies make letter forms,
Change into wheels.  Unable to land
They find shelter in the ditches,
Clutching weed stalks, rocking.

Walking past the cottonwoods,
I hear it clearly for an instant,
Your name.  Impossible in such
Late weather, but there, nevertheless
Or perhaps it is other, a scraping
Sound of branches against themselves,
Well above the ground.  Perhaps
This is not language, this time.
Perhaps I am wrong.

Wind inside my coat, through
The neck, forcing words from my mouth.
They make your name, as if I had
No choice, as if I were the desert,
Or, at best, a part of winter too,

full of hands, waving, waving.