Author: William Cowan

There is tender summary to report
In our coming closing.

All our products will sink
To all your devices

After a synchronized fashion
Telling us how well you are

To fit into our game plan
For crashing developments.

Refreshments follow the plying opportunity.
Any adjustments to be made continue.

He didn’t know how to tell her
He no longer cared.

And the dark is full.  One green, gold

Streetlight.  The dog somewhere outside across the street

Gives a conversational bark satisfied he is outside home.

Insects commiserate with each other over tales

We will never know.  A couple of voices

Pass by in quiet repose.

 

Cars languidly slide by receding

Into the impermanence of silence briefly held.

Sprinklers whisper a verse

I long to remember.

 

Ragged choruses dance in the dew.

Hills climb toward clouds.

We close our eyes to see what is not.

Not that the parallel life

Is stillness fulfilled, glinting

Charm or travesty evaded, no

 

All the cleansing is gathering fate

To its breast, marching to drums

We only hear as they grow near.

 

 

 

 

 

1.
We evolve into
people we don’t
recognize.

All the years
of pictures present
ongoing evidence.

2.
There is nowhere
to sit and
just one menu.

The staff is
hurried,
yet reserved.

There are no
reservations to be
gained.

We order what
we hated
long ago.

What is good
for you takes
on new meaning.

Pale petals fall
on this autumn day,
curl oblong & blank,
stare at the sky
like feline Asian eyes.

Trails of mist
spray over the soil,
vacant tendrils reach
for the light.

Gradually, the sun coats
the fence with pastel
shadows. Fits of
breeze strike
chairs turned to dusk.

In calamity we find our limits.
Each day we try to wash the same spots.
Over there where the leaves fall
the tree grieves in the quiet.

After the windows are closed,
the heavy trowel put away,
the deer again dodge incoming.
The bus stop & the streetlights enjoy the fog.

The red taillights, car & all disappear
by themselves down the long avenue.

Most things take the same amount of time.
The idea behind thought is to make things faster.

No flipping or arranging trays of meaning suffices.
You must try to get it over & over.

An isolated cluster of nation building satisfies some.
There are flashing lights beyond the fence that hold place.

Therefore worthy presentations eclipse reservations,
close all dissent with a warm blanket of contradictions.

Preparing the results goes on for awhile.
Half the caring is drained in rhetoric.

Is that not right? Is there a difference?
It makes for variety. The big family is overcooked.

Thank you for deducing. The flattening
level tipping point arrives.

We are trance-like in song.
And, what you choose, what comes up, continues.

1.
Vaseline eases some
things along,

even those that
need further resistance.

If we leave all
options on the table

can it hold the “weight?”

What transpires is
action animated

by a lack of seeing where
we could be, i.e.,

r.p.g. & thee,
etc.

2.
Relations age some
explode ask

the Afghans you
never know

what is going on
inside sign

some papers
hope

it plays to last
or outlast

the fragile denouement
on the table.

Your hands are
never still.

There are wisps of recurring conversations,
whispers of parents, college friends, favorite movies,
music coming in & out of focus. Favorite cigarette
moments with different women. Ethereal galleons
floating on vagrant winds unseen.

They come back in the dead of night when nothing
is held back & an ancient calliope can he heard.
If I stand in the empty house at night
I hear the voices of some now gone to where
the stories pile up on some mild shore.

As long as they hold their place & allow
this subterfuge to roll on:
the streets & gardens walked through
to stay solid, substantial artifacts,
scenery of an outer life that is only a ripple

on the great ocean’s surface that we traverse,
then I will continue to paddle observing
the flora, fauna, & mixed messages of our prismatic life.
I ask is it getting warmer for you?

The horizon is coming ever closer to a closure
that will resolve all the questions that breathe
in & out with our every breath.

I could not whistle
when I was young
it took awhile before it begun

The girls were distant
when I was shy
then I did not know why

And yet it did all
come round the held note
the girl who wrote

she cared for me
when I was young
it took awhile before it begun

to have a depth
an interior hum
that moved in places

not touched before
and quietly
opened a door

At the matinee at one
in the afternoon on a bright,
open day means a number

of things. The need to wrap-
up in a blanket, a haven from
the world we struggle in.

The breeze spins lightly
through the vast parking lot.
The sun requires sunglasses

to find your way to the glass doors,
artificial light, buttery popcorn aroma,
red carpets, bored employees,

canned music reverie, solace.
We all sit far apart and watch
distant, chill London gloom

sooth us with detachment.

To get up every day with a purpose
is a joy. To go out in the world,
see clearly, be where you are.

A sage from long ago said:
“when hungry I eat. When tired
I sleep.” And, I write to see
where it goes, to go where it leads.

What is there to see?
What do I see that is not there?

What speaks as I write
of what was not there only
a moment ago?

The thought thinks the speaker.
It wafts out to hold its place
where the echoes of choices not made
play their harmony in the background.

We are a chorus of song.
We are all waiting to learn our part
in the great orchestra of being.

The conductor waits for your attention.