Where-e’er you find “the cooling western breeze,”
In the next line, it “whispers through the trees;”
If crystal streams “with pleasing murmurs creep,”
The reader’s threatened (not in vain) with “sleep.”
Point taken, dead sir. Rigidity is my armor now, but soon I will write un-shielded.
I read that the dove is closely related to the pigeon… I just don’t see it
Another beautiful morning in the Mid-Columbidae Basin.
Hey little friend
Joining my daybreak route?
You’ve landed in my path six times now.
Please watch out!
Four feathery ounces again lead the way.
Good morning to you! What are you trying to say?
I see another pair on the lawn across the street
Why are you alone? Is that why you don’t tweet?
You’re solo, I’m on my own…
Hey baby… funny we should meet.
My mind
On more mystical days
Seeks a message
In this avian display.
A Christian dove?
(please no, tiny bird-
you are not so unworthy a muse).
Or a wild Ishtar, playing a pawn in a mischievous ruse?
If there’s a message you are sending, it hasn’t been received
but maybe things are less and more than otherwise perceived.
For now I’ll just thank you for the company
worth more than a sign towards path or track.
The seas of pavement are easier to navigate
simply knowing that fauna has ‘got my back.’
No more practical now than when new.
by Me. 1st draft. 3/8/13
Through memory’s ruins runs a frazzled mind.
It dodges and ducks from dreams left behind.
Each pillar unfinished- jagged monuments to error
White wears to waste, revealing brown shades of disrepair.
But build again! You are bound to find
the evasive answers hidden from all mankind.
Nevermind that the question is rarely asked
and when it is, focus doesn’t last.
Who has a flute to spare?
My glass has run low.
Replenish the music of a life
regulated by flow.
Stumble to a column
Embrace what has already been tried.
Bang your head against it –That’s it
(if it doesn’t hurt then you haven’t really tried).
A billion dead men have done it, seeking the same result as you.
Just build upon their rubble- history ain’t easy to eschew.
Take these plans, repeat and rewind.
Process of Elimination suggests you’ll find
The instruction manual is incomplete
(with lines for help, though, it is replete).
Soon, speed dial #1 admits the failure of sheer Will
until you find yourself only muttering
“What the Hell was I trying to build?”
But build again! You are bound to find
another hope by the end of the line
Nevermind that clarity is now sputtering
The inquiry soon relegated to embarrassed stuttering.
Who has a flute to spare?
My glass has run low.
Replenish the music of lives
Regulated by flow.
This time, dig below foundation
You’ll have nothing to stand on
But for your own exploration.
Ignore the flourish of fluted lines-
We aren’t there yet. Restarting takes time.
May your vision be not obscured.
Only then will centuries of pestilence be cured.
—————–
I suppose I’m not a parapet-
certainly not made of stone.
But the keystone I will strive to whet
on a truth that serves to hone.
Lest you read my last article regarding Arlene’s Flowers and think that the Tri-Cities is a backwater of ignorance, I feel that this obituary from our daily newspaper is beautiful and full of honesty. I’m not sure if it is poetry or prose but it is art.
GILBERT JAY ‘GJ’ PITKOFF, Jr.
3-21-90 / 2-27-13
A kaleidoscope of sounds. Hard to contain with door or fence.
He was a rocker and a head banger. From below he was dangerous. Cats disappeared in his presence and dogs respected him to survive. He was a wanderer and a kitchen’s worst nightmare. A daredevil who turned the ordinary into extreme. A Stunt man that liked to bounce and crash through.
He was antischedule. He was a sleep fighter and a nonarouser. He was juicy. He liked looking out the window at the leaves in the breeze. He loved movement. He went through life unafraid. His guardian angels often worked overtime.
G was liked by a bunch that “got it” and he touched quite a few. He was a special kindred spirit hard for a body to contain. At best he was the “Budster.” A unique brew. I feel lucky that I knew him.
He taught me unconditional love. He never spoke a word but I will miss our conversations. I thank the many who cared for and cared about him. I know we will meet up again in a better place. But until then, Gj, you will surely be missed.
The Dad
—————-
Thank you, ‘The Dad,’ for this. I hope I’m not out of line for transcribing an obituary; I just think this is the type of expression that should be shared.
thebookofbokonon 