FootprintsintheWind.com

Finest is the pressure of
mortality on our dawns

:- Doug.

What if what we think we see
is not the thing that is the thing
but shadow of some old fart’s thought?

:- Doug.

Emily wrote a letter to the world
Might we to dying our own letter write?
Better, to our friend, to tell our dying?
. . . about our flowing, flowing together?
. . . about our inter-inter-stitching?

:- Doug.

Attempt to recognize
any understanding
is one among a crowd
this is all we can do
this we all can do

:- Doug.

Free of me, free of you
Free of words, free of meaning
Here

:- Doug.

Footprints in the Wind^sm # 2361

A conversation is a living beast
It snarls, it bites
Its eyes fix on yours, knowing

Please pass it on.

© c 2024, Learning Works, Incorporated. All rights reserved. Easy reprint permissions: 574/274-5353, or by e-mail to mailto:Footprints AT FootprintsInTheWind.com. Back issues available at http://www.FootprintsintheWind.com

Conversation lives both
in our words
and beyond

:- Doug.

If I cannot get there
maybe I can point for you
or only stare

:- Doug.

Mysteries can
only ever
be penetrated
partially
but did we?

:- Doug.

The world is large
and full

:- Doug.

A conversation is a question.
We ask it of ourselves.
We ask it of our friend opposite.
We cannot expect answer
Or even presence.

:- Doug.

The plenitude of meetings
comes and leaves
stays a while only

:- Doug.

Footprints in the Wind^sm # 2360

I’ve been writing to you all along as if the person opposite you is a sparkling being, full of wit and creativity and art. But he’s not. He’s complicated, confusing, moody, and boring. Most days. Until. There was you. All you have to work with is an extract of reality. All you ever have.

Please pass it on.

© c 2024, Learning Works, Incorporated. All rights reserved. Easy reprint permissions: 574/274-5353, or by e-mail to mailto:Footprints AT FootprintsInTheWind.com. Back issues available at http://www.FootprintsintheWind.com

I cannot be sure I will get the driveway done today. I’ll work toward it. That is all life permits me to say.

:- Doug.

Contingency
the poet writes
is who we are
Nay!
Oranges in tissue

:- Doug.

I write and I converse on the chance I might stumble on a peculiar jagged rock of conversation: a conversation that tends to meeting. You probably want that too, odds are you have been stretching toward it all your spiritual life.

:- Doug.

Read! How else would you run across Viktor Shklovsky’s admonition to “make it strange”? How else would you start wondering how you could make our conversation strange, and how that could make it wonderful? In looking at things out of their home environs, or purposely failing to grasp the wriggling thing that makes them understandable, you fall together into the cidence of coin!

:- Doug.