when we were but wee

ok, to start off mi po tree blog, here’s something i wrote recently. it usually takes me a week or so to write a poem. tho sometimes they come quickly, even in one sitting. other times they need to sit longer, like my paintings, in the corner of the room scumming away like the top of a pond, just waiting for something to ferment and appear. eventually, i play with them again. maybe twice or three times. but, sometimes they sit for years. and sometimes they are relegated to the b list, the c list or even the bone yard (where i pick out pieces for this and that). and i have color system on my computer (i mostly write on my computer) that tells me how much i like any given poem, where i’m at in the process of its writing. sometimes, when i’m out in the world, i write in my sketchbook. but i always transfer the work to my computer where i cut and paste if necessary. i guess i am a collagist. maybe all writers are. eventually, it all goes to my assistant/editor, karen wilcox. she gives me feedback and helps assemble my work into book form. sometimes the poems go out to my wife susan for feedback also. but all writing is a step into the unknown (as is visual art). there’s every chance that i may wake up in a month or year and truly hate what i wrote. or adore it.

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when we were but wee

thus, i can't sleep.

again.

i am wired.

sleep appears to be optional.

the night’s electricity sambas between the

corners of whatever passes as mind.

now, again and again, i am seeing straight

through souls and into the bodies that

surround what appears to be souls,

i am seeing thru everything.

again.

and now there are lights everywhere,

and the lights are smiling.

bells hang from those very same smiles,

ringing lightly, ringing quietly.

the bells are not made from thought,

not brass nor clay nor sugar,

they are made from the way trees

turn into wind, the way birds

dip their shoulders and drift towards town,

the way the yellow of daffodils

is entirely unnecessary,

but utterly important.

yes, my friend, today my destiny is

the legendary hammock in the backyard,

the one beneath the maples.

i hope the holes between woof and warp

are not too large today, not too problematic.

and i hope that they don't frequent local bars

or over-indulge in chocolate or caffeine.

and i hope i don't slip thru those great, majestic holes,

slip thru onto the hard ground, slip thru

into the empty sky, slip thru into other dimensions,

slip  into lost galaxies.

and thus, my friend, for safety's sake,

i've decided to wander off to ireland,

to build my dream home there

on the tip of the dingle peninsula,

right where the sea crashes into the rocks,

the spot that reminds us all

of how the world was born

and how it will end,

the gnawing sea curling over the rocks

moaning in that loud, low cloudy voice

we all remember

from when we were but wee

and our mothers were

still so beautiful.

 copyright dougie padilla, 2020