Laziness

      Laziness


The sky asked, but I didn't follow.
The tree asked. The grass.
The stone asked, but I stayed inside.
The memory of flying asked,
but I laid my wings. Who the stone,
who the winged man, who the grass.
The food packagings cram the table,
float the trash basket.
Lay down this day's slouched back.
Dream, and wake.

One quiet night

      One quiet night


In the meandering of a guitar
I touch a memory.
The hand glides along a corridor wall
into a tiny, dimly lit chamber.
One hand traces a rough metal stove,
the other unveils the blanketed entrance to a room.
The feet get snuggly.
On the left, a book case.
I leaf through Borges' stories,
recollections of a Dominican friar.
I step across the room and touch the guitar.
We sit down on the carpet
for the practice of Aikido control of the center
Suwari Waza Kokyu-Ho Musubi.
A guiding motion circles out
and I feel the touch wrapping around
and I feel wrapped in the gentle warmth.

--- [updated July 21st with B's help]

[sea lion]

      ***


In a forgotten sea, the sea lion lounges.
I meet you on the flea market,
you buy a statue of the Buddha.
There is nothing to see, the lion urges.
As you fade for the gift behind the linen,
you the lion's secret, even if I saw you again.

---
With help from DSJ.

[coincidences]

      ***

Fortuitous greetings bind spacetime.
A blonde bright face under a Spanish sun.
A brunette cloudy day punctured with a smile.
I walk with you until you recall
to invite me to the study of coincidence.

Limbs, chest, the back, the head coincide
in your fouetté.
The teacher demonstrates
the perfect coincidence of relaxed arms,
the trajectory that neatly grounds the jumps,
the smooth resolution from chaînés.

Virtual particles flicker in the night.

[mysterious creature]

      ***

I don't know how you felt today.
I've seen a stern face.
You left to play in another room.
You haven't said goodbye, neither did I.
The gestures that we draw
in the corridors, overlying --
out of the scant lines
a mysterious creature
moves exactingly, beguilingly untamed.
Animated by our shadows,
bound to us, yet free.

---

With some help from MSW.

The poem

      The poem

What a joke, this poem's no good
yet it claims its title.
As the day was that slipped through
yet it claimed its number --
I met a friend. I tried a rhyme
and it sounded mumbo.
Is there a method to disprove
this madness makes no sense.

? The clay

      The clay

The teacher shapes
alignment out of the muscles
the flat flow of gravity down the hip
the relaxed shoulder
What makes the body aware of
the triangle of the navel and the ribs
The once fleeting balance takes root

The teacher's pulling guidance
How can it take root in the fingers