Nothing comes

Twisted Snow Gums, Charlottes Pass, Kosciuszko National Park, 14th May 2009. Photo by Jack Heyward.

So difficult to sit doing nothing
unless enforced by the presence of others.
Alone, I want to be busy every moment.

What makes me uneasy with stillness?
Uneasiness itself?

I’m not doing anything!

You are breathing, pumping blood.
Holding down the chair.
Filling space.
Dying.

No. That word
came from elsewhere than cleverness.
That word is
closer to the bones.

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How did the poem “Fixed” come to me?

I’ve not tried before to retrace in memory how my poems come into being. Yesterday a close friend’s response to “Fixed” move me to do so.

This poem came to me, as most of them do, in much the same way that spoken ministry messages come to me during Quaker waiting worship.  I am inspired by something, perhaps something very minor, that crosses my awareness, and suddenly there is an image or word or phrase.

My usual morning practice

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Fixed

I feel stalled
+++and confounded.
Snow
+++not yet fallen
+++chills me and
+++gets in my way.

I do not want to slow down,
+++let go,
+++wait.

Yet I must,
+++either restlessly
+++or willingly.
Nothing seems fixed.

Saturday predawn</a></p><a href=

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Moment

"First tracks," by Mike Shell (12/9.2021)

Opening the doors
+++I see
+++that the landscape
+++is
ever-changing.

One moment becomes
+++another,
+++not
in a sequence or
+++progression,

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Prodigal son

When Dad died
+++I could
+++let him go
+++because
we had gone to McDonald’s
+++together.
Double cheeseburger,
+++shake, and fries.

Watching him
+++climb on the exercise bike
+++as soon as we
+++got back
+++to the nursing home,
I saw him at peace
+++with

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