bare trees
drag shadows
across gray
roof-tops

sunlight glints
off passing cars

the day goes on
with or without us

(D James)

silently mocking
my attempts
to scribble
something

of weight

the blank page
like a snow-covered
mountain

challenges my ability
to communicate
and whisper-laughs
at my thoughts of words

until I say
to the blank page
“ok, you write something”

then there is silence
and I can finally settle down
to begin the work of stringing words
together into something that makes sense

to someone
somewhere

(D. James)

never and always
right and wrong

bone and dust
blood and guts

intransigent and flexible
solid and liquid

everything
and
nothing

(D James)

when what lingers
is the dying vibration
of a sound

before the next key
is struck

when the world
makes sense

and life is found
in the silence

(D. James)

and the
screen in your head
goes black

who ever said
you can’t get there from here

didn’t know where you were
to begin with

so how did they know
where you’d end up

(D. James)

if this were
an actual poem
we would tell you
how to feel
about it

or at least
express something
worthy of an
emotional response

(D. James)

and and and
bringing together
disparate thoughts

and and and
an endless string
of ideas

and and and
where I’ve been

and and and
where I’m going

(D. James)

fearing pain
it morphs
into anger

forgetting compassion
until there is nothing left
but rage

and this I fear
more than all the rest

(D James)

wondering
where it went wrong
where I went wrong

feeling out of place
out of time
out of my mind

like a character
in an unfinished
Beckett play

waiting for something
like life
to begin
unable to go on
with no choice
but to go on

immobile
immovable
immature

with all the courage
of a well-fed
old house cat

wanting to know
how it all ends
when I should be thinking
where to begin 

(D James)

kicking
to catch it
with the side
of my shoe

spinning
it skitters
into the light

much like my thoughts
on this deathly cold day

(D. James)