the Never-Ending Poem by the Poets of Everything

Moony Memory - A poem in several voices Can it be there is a place           to be touched  stirred as if with a spoon that creates an eddy    that swirls open    the place where sorrow and love interchange parts     yet always fit a place one must pass through to arrive This stanza was to be for you      a sunny affirmation to shine through foggy doubt but last night she climbed into my dreams to play      hide and seek with moony memory      tumble with my rhyme and meter      then chose to stay in quilts and pillows      leave me here to blush and fumble empty headed but she's still there just waiting to be led to daylight      to meet you and hand you my words We wander about,     not aimlessly     in our metaphoric landscapes Rivers made of eddies of thought      dragging boulders of memory...

We Arrive - *another* poem in multiple voices We arrive  believing in the drama of our lives but we are dancers between acts who kick their way across the stage a brief time tapping our way through the lights helping the audience pass the time between the main and ancient show in baseball, they call it "the Big Show" in the Circus, "the Big Top" New Orleans is "the Big Easy" juxtaposed with NYC's "Big Apple" are all these superlatives just a way to pass over the minutiae  which are our lives Minutiae? fairy gardens in the mountains nestled betwixt stones             we look up at the loudest  while we step over whole worlds   the full body stretch of the preemie baby  lasting dozens of long flowing slow seconds  her fists the size of small walnuts   her toe buds curling       in the minutiae, a glance to see a set of brows dart together than apart showing two opposite reactions  one since...

We arrive believing in the drama of our lives but we are dancers between acts who kick their way across the stage a brief time tapping our way through the lights helping the audience pass the time between the main and ancient show there exist times and places where the sun shines when it rains where a man leans into a woman to share something a bite of cookie        a secret joke maybe he tells her she's pretty and she looks down       still shy at 60 Can it be there is a place           to be touched  stirred as if with a spoon that creates an eddy    that swirls open    the place where sorrow and love interchange parts     yet always fit a place one must pass through to arrive https://strongjacksonpoet.wordpress.com/

He gives me slivers and stones                   with suggestions.   I carry flat stones in my shirt like a bounty each one finding place under the ledge where rounder rocks nearly but not quite meet wooden sill.    The stones begin to reveal desires about placement, the work goes faster. Pleasure meets the pain of living shifting up my back. I remember parakeets carrying eggs from one laying box to the other.           He gives me boards with previous lives –first pine trees run through a mill, then Tesuque Village Market floor. Grandfather-planks ripped up, moved, piled, and faded provide packrat squatters and rattlesnake homes to raise families under the wood sniffing what was. I pull boards from the stack. Some have a tongue, some a groove, others have neither. ...