The situation
has weak points,
leakages, cracks

Old thoughts
rise and go now,
”and go to Innisfree”

Language
is an open question,
at best

I seep, trickle,
sit on a stool,
speak into a microphone,
having waited 50 years plus
to lift my words as a 21-one-year-old
of 1970
from diary pages
up through vocal cords,
oral cavity
and mind,
and now mind is full of them;
I'm mindful,
loose thoughts swinging
'cross the barnyard like swifts,
whistling,
and like dragonflies
undecided over the pond,
hither and thither

Words are bamboo sticks
touching tight
in the Easterlies,
rattling
in the onslaught from the sea,
waves from the unconscious white
with foam;
everything open for the on-coming

I cut words into shreds,
rearrange;
see them fly up
like winter birds at the feeder
when they sense my shadow
across the window

and when voices are liberated of meaning,
timbres let loose, they come to life
as I recognise their characteristics,
un-disturbed by all those meanings,
that orderly sanity
that kept them veiled