NOTES TO SELF
As a child
I tried to jump
to grasp the silver orb
I have let friends slip through my fingers and counted on enemies and strangers to save me.
Today words tumble
from my mind
like laundry pods.
Trying to balance my brain on the head of a pin,
it’s difficult with all these dancing angels.
— — -====?=====
My Case Worker said that I should admit that I am old.
Some friends would dispute,
“70! Your just a kid!”
— — — — — — — —
Is there a Quantum Theory of Poetry?
Can the same poem exist at opposite ends of the universe?
Does a poem mean different things to each personal dimension?
Is it a quantum event, causing ripples in space-time?
It has been a year of endings.
Death has touched my life.
Things that seemed constant
have or appear to be ending.
Grief is a difficult emotion.