The Calmness of Peace

Upon those rare (oh so rare)
occassions when the peace of
the world settles slowly upon 
my furrowed brow.

The quietness of song and 
pastel hue, gently lifting me
up and inviting me to float
away with clouds of water 
against a deep-blue, dry sky.

And as I slowly breath in 
the warm dry air, my body 
slowly re-laxing.  I realize
how difficult it is to remember
this place when once again
(with all of its insistent
immediacy and persistent
urgency)  the world with
all of its demands must
inevitably pull me back to
its domain.

And how difficult it is to
re-create this empty shell
of deep quiet.  The world
screaming red-jets of now-ness.
Rending me left and right.

And, so, I play a trick upon
such a world -- as such as it
seems only want to be.

I read in quiet medi-tude

or listen to nocturne suite,

or gaze in total perplexity 
at Picasso's 100 strokes that
out of nothingness created the
Don Quixote painting,  

or marvel at the smoothness of
the brickman's concrete that 
forms sculpted sections of 
a mathematical curve that 
requires four variables in
a three-dimensional space.

And by such trickery of 
association and knowledge
cold-kilned until nothing 
remains but the straw cradle-ing
the still-hot casting.

And the cackling of crows
fighting with robins over
water -- I pour a gallon
of water from my jug into
the other ditch.  And still
they chirp that there water
is better any-how.  A cat
watches quietly, waiting
for the summer heat to 
sub-side -- so that it
will be worth it's effort
to futilely persue its
wonderfully flut-ter-ing
toy that puts up more
struggle and cunning that
can imagine it in its 
2-dimensional world of
tin-cans-of-tuna-opening,
warm-naps-in  sun-in-winter,
cold-naps-in  doors-in-summer.
A dog running after a car,
trying to read the lettering
on the h u b b b c a p p p s s.

And Ozy, and Paz, and Emily,
and poets words 
   slow-ly, 
      joy-fully

fill fill fill 
                fill-ing 

    my mind with mind with

serenity, and meaning, 

that will
last me until the next oasis
of tran-quil-i-ty can be found.

And by such counter-poise of
weight of wonderful and most
fearful sym-m-e-try, all of
these artistic moes stay the
harrr-ang-ing ca-ca-pho-ny
of a world ob-sessed with 
the now-ness of things.

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