There is well was
a place for you
here next to me
in the bed which
I have on occasion
filled it’s higher than
my side since you
are were smaller but
it’s not even that
I simply don’t like
the view of downtown
and the mountains from
over there because from
over here I had
you to look at
before I ever saw
them you being my
fore and they back
Author: Harlan Didrickson
I first started writing this blog as a way to refocus my thinking after a debilitating mental breakdown in 2008. Having been educated in writing, I had hoped that my love for words would have left a trail for me to follow and, well, here we are.
CelloMoon
It’s definitely the cello
which still haunts me
it sounds like a
wolf just this side
of the timber line
calling to or for
its one and now
lost love I think
that it’s the late
summer moon which doesn’t
haunt the skies until
just before dawn stealing
some of the morning’s
sunrise reminding me that
while like the love
that I don’t feel
currently it’s still there
even if but briefly
Both cello and moon
are not my ghosts
but my reminder angels
Loon
Oh I implore thee
never ever become me
for I am crazy
as a loon and
oh those poor poor
loons to ever be
associated with the likes
of little old me
Be you be the
best you leave the
loons up to me
Incubate
I remember the day
like it was yesterday
or maybe it was
no it was a
while ago that day
when my aging body
passed my younger mind
like cars or motorcycles
on some far outstretched
road in the middle
of nowhere the
drivers or riders simply
nodding unfamiliar yet recognizable
The truth about life
is that our bodies
descend and if lucky
our minds ascend and
in my case remain
hopelessly silly and curious
Writers incubate they emerge
and that day on
that road was the
day when I finally
cracked open my shell
and then became this
MountainRiver
My prose definitely sucks
all of that punctuation
and capital letters and
what complete sentences and
paragraphs mine really sucks
but poetry
poetry runs crystal clear
like a high mountain
river cold and crisp
like freshly washed apples
and in this river
swim fish which reflect
the sun turning this
river into splashing rainbows
you see poetry is
words and words have
meanings and everyone that
reads thinks and feels
something different always different
so it’s not poetry
or even the words
it’s the reader reading
and feeling what they
do when looking into
my clear mountain river
