My Own Voyage

My Own Voyage They clean each other off at night before falling asleep, at the end of the bed jumbled together and in peace, our cats, in slumber, a new recognition of sitting and letting the mind go inside the sky, watching thoughts arrive and decline. The gaps between thoughts bring me to my own voyage moving and silent sitting. We tasted breakfast, within our budget—doughnuts— cinnamon and chocolate long johns heard chatter of our baby in the car with my wife—whose voice spoke to me somewhere beyond the glass— and I, still in line to pay for our breakfast— did nothing else but wonder who did that to me, who would cast me to believe on another day it was all in my head, and I’m thinking to myself well, no dah! I became the fish the world caught to send me to another pathway of life— and at that precise moment, she spoke the language speaking to me, another language I somehow knew. I woke sweating from dreams, two nights, and the music I heard I gave up making friends with the voices. My wife helped me take the meds reminding me when I forget— in doing so I’ll be able to drive our daughter, not cause her to worry unnecessarily, and wonder when the paramedics would come to our door mentioning I hurt myself driving. If not killing myself— immediately, like Flash Gordon, she flew to the hospital, my life now still, still living, surviving again the rebel wars within myself. Some day she’ll fly to the hospital and tell me she can’t take the danger of my death. A Painting I’ve realized, like a painting my Aunt gave us for our wedding, the way the ocean contoured through and beyond infinity. Until it meets the sky. Until it sets the mind simply, simple as simple isn’t what it means. As is said the path is the goal illustrates my practice. My tone doesn’t shift. My heart built not out of stone but change. I want her to know, like a son responding to her art, it’s extremely real how people stand on the edge routinely rather than in the water. It has strong roots in memory, and when I tell her it’s awesome, I hope she finds faith in a finger pointing directly to the heart. The Waters Speak (Four Parts) Terrible Noise The creek levels miles down the path. No secrets. We all know everything the river says. It seems at first says nothing, waves lap and slap the earth on both banks. The terrible noise hidden as the waves get higher and broadens as the creek widens nightly. The focus for anyone meshes with breath and privately speaks to us all. Our imagination inside the wave holds us captive but not enslaved. Some surf and envision the water feels as it closes in on land. The pendulum’s historic road glistens in the rain, transfixes every breath. (only the first part available now)