The explosion landed
In silence
Revealing exactly where he was wrong
And right
In one burst of time
Moment
Thought
Leaving him to sit with
details
Marker
The cracks show –
Spreading
He missed them
At first
Clocking them
Only after
Others
Commented.
He finds
Life emptying out
Contemplating
His time chasing
Time
Until time ran
Out of
Sight
Leaving him
With
All the time
Needed.
Giving him a
Smile –
Clues were
Forever
There
An unfelt
Hand
Pushing.
In Flight
A jet carves a white trail
Through a clear blue sky
Carrying people
Going home
For business
On vacation
To places unfamiliar
Visiting lands
They used to know
Others could be going back
For a death
A birth –
A love
Different destinations
Bodies
In a frame
Of space
In time
Captured
In a moment
Of gazing
Wishing –
Wondering
Standing
All alone
Breathe
sighing
reading
thinking
restless
my mind twists and seethes
trapped
with mindless energy
about how the world
has changed
worrying
speculating
drifting
I wonder
what will come to be
roaming through memories
of hopes
history
half-remembered
dreams
darkness
spreads
across the nation
troubles
rise
around
the world
I struggle
to find the shadows
or how
we
once were
now I find
I’m frankly
a little
out of breath
I need to go somewhere
quiet
and give my brain
a rest
A Poem For The Regime
Paul Vinent Cannon wrote a short poem, “Choices”. I find it perfect for these times and the TACO Regime. I attempted to reblog it but WordPress’s magic fizzled. So I have a link but also lifted the poem and posted it here.
An American Cinquain (2-4-6-8-2)
Choices
Silence
sometimes bidden
sometimes so moralised
well sometimes I just cannot be
silent.
Copyright 2025 ©️Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️
Hope you’ll visit his blog and enjoy more of his poems and observations. Cheers
Floofsy
Where is the fur
Where is the purr
Where is the regarding gaze
Maybe out in the sun
Somewhere having fun
Or resting in some shade
Then he arrives
Taking me by surprise
Leaping onto my lap
To tell his news
Through chirps and mews
It’s my buddy, my fur friend, my cat
The Usual Places
The usual places are empty
Our air is still
No soft noises are heard
None are there for a treat or a pill.
Toys are collected and put away
Wondering if they’ll be needed on another day.
Food bowls are cleaned, beds are washed,
Unopened food is given away,
The others are tossed.
Quiet shadows every motion and move
You think of memories
Which help and soothe.
But the faces remain, always there
In the empty space, an empty chair.
Ode to Papi
Trying to catch him is like reaching for sushine in the air
He’s so quick, elusive, it’s just not fair.
Passing us in a blaze of light,
He’s a wingless small animal lifting off in flight.
His burst of speed has no rhyme nor reason,
And seems independent of time and season.
Just as we keep wondering why and thinking where,
He comes back with a purr, his tail in the air.
Woundsday’s Theme Music
Mood: Reinvigorated
It’s Woundsday, December 4, 2024. The stagnant air seemed to have shifted a little, as the chill has abated. Although Ashlandia is claimed to be foggy, my perch’s view was fog free. Sunshine enriched blue skies took the vision field from end to end. Now, 11 AM, my personal weather sys says it’s 46 F outside. Alexa claimed it’ll be 67 F today but I don’t trust it. Other forecasts say 57 F today, which seems reasonable.
It’s Woundsday because I’ve been busy this morning licking my wound. Eww. Gross. Figuratively licking my wounds. The wound is the surgery site to repair my ankle. Much better today, thanks. Now I’m practicing my walk, trying to rid myself of my limp, regain some grace, and speed up my stride.
We’ve been following several news stories. One is that another Trump nominee has withdrawn. I’m not celebrating as I’m sure he’ll find a horrid replacement. My wife then regaled me with a few Buzzfeed anecdotes about people realizing what their support of Trump means to what goes on in their world. Trump nominees are surprising them. Examples include a business women who was planning equipment purchases being taught what the tariffs will do. Then there are parents with a child in Headstart just learning that Trump intends to shut down Headstart and now wonder what will happen to their child. In other words, they’re gettin’ woke by their vote.
Also following a story in Pennsylvania about a woman who fell into a sinkhole while looking for her cat in Tuesday morning’s cold, dark hours. I’m from that area and have family still living in the region, so it’s one of those six degrees of separation things. I hope they find her alive and well but I’m sadly doubtful at this point.
Today’s music in the morning mental music stream (Trademark okay) is “Feelin’ Alright”. I posted this song back in 2016. I wrote then: “I’d only recently learned that Dave Mason wrote this song. I knew that Traffic had performed it, but in my heart, this song always belonged to Joe Cocker. Whichever group or performer does it, the song always lifts me up. I loved it when he sang it in concert.” Still standing with that declaration. It’s my song for Woundsday because I’m going to have beers with my friends tonight. It’s our usual Wednesday setup. I haven’t attended for seven weeks. Haven’t had a beer in that period, too. I did have wine and rum with mulled cider on T-Day, though. Beyond that, I’m walking well and experiencing minimal discomfort and pain.
I woke from a dream this morning and remembered open lines from a Dylan Thomas poem.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The dream had been about reinventing myself and reinventing the world, so I can understand the connection with the poem. It’s one of my top five poems.
Hope you have a superb Wednesday, and the days beyond today are also superb as we count down the last of 2024. Coffee and I have rekindled our relationship once again. We’re good to the last drop. Here’s the music. Cheers
The Declaration
I'm an independent floof, and I go at my own speed, No matter what you plan to do, Nor where you need to be.
Whether you’re taking me for a walk, Or waiting for me to pee. Or I'm getting up from slumber, And demanding something to eat.
Even if I'm coming to see you, Or you're coming to see me, I'll select the gear I'll use, And establish the speed it'll be.
You'll soon learn from whatever I’m doing, Whether it’s sleeping in sunshine or in bed, Or getting petted or kissed, On my belly or my head.
Or sitting and chewing, Or flying or swimming, Or brooding and stewing, Or complaining and pooing.
Or staring and listening, At scary things in the night. Or walking and talking, And chasing things in flight.
Or meowing and purring, Or barking or squawking, Or kissing and squirming, Or running and stopping.
I can’t be ordered to make it fast, Nor told to slow down to make it last. You can try, but you can't change me. And though you keep trying, you'll eventually see.
When it comes to living and dying and all in between. No matter the activity or who gets involved, You have no choice, But to go with my flow.
So when I get going
— If I do —
I'll go at my own speed. And you will, too.
Michael Seidel, writer 