There are kids playing soccer and yelling in Spanish.

Inside by a window I’m writing, and like in golf,
Trying not to think about hitting the ball.

Outside there’s a sudden pause,
A crescendoing wail tracks a kid’s growing awareness of his injury.
He just cries for a minute, though, but a toddler is tuning up
With a gravelly gagging style first; then, all out in bursts.

The game resumes.
Occasionally a ball bounces off the iron grates
That protect the downstairs windows.

Tuesday, October 21, 2003

I hear that the rumors in jail grind patience.
In a ball hardly turning another one spins frantically.

Monday, October 20, 2003

When one has dreamt that there is no ground
After having been told it many times:

Nothing to attain; no time to lose;
A writer is confused
Clearly what and why to write.

Here
From here,
The desire for ground, peace, and contentment endures
Fears and fierce moods.

The abiding desire now is for freedom,
And to act unselfishly
Without knowing what matter is.

Friday, April 02, 2004

NOISES

There is a ringing . . .
From the hot green tea I think
Sprinklers sounding like overamped crickets;

Might be crickets;
Could even be part of the noise a ceiling fan makes,
But I don’t have one.

Kids playing soccer,
The ball whamming off the tailgate of my pickup occasionally.

Anyway, despite these distracting noises I’m determined to find . . .

There has got to be a conclusion around here somewhere.