Mumbled the old man

We will never,
in our entire lives
forward lived
be listened to
like when we are
babies
and have nothing to say
that makes any sense
or adds up to experience
as in process
other than
the audible reaction
we have come
to refine.

And still, the old go unnoticed,
after all they have witnessed
in further thought
one should not ignore
repetition
because it looks the same
and never is
and sounds like complaint
but never was.

We predict
the firefighter from the fawn,
timid in the forest at first,
naturally, he will adapt.
We guess and check
and still seem not to heed
the final words
as they were said
carelessly,
as if it were possible
like alternate endings.


Artwork by Leonardo da Vinci, c. 1513, Old Man with Water studies in Public Domain. 

Skipping on the Surface

It is obvious where matter changes
its collective being lies
somewhere on top, outside of itself
so we can see it, making it matter

At face level, on even ground
I brace my stance at the waters edge
smooth wafer stone in flesh palm
before hurling it-out there

I pause to picture its path, knowing
the ripples go nowhere but below
I can see closely the other shore
this is how I touch it from here

Someone else is always over there
and they say the same thing, mirroring my
in between, where the details gurgle
over boulders blocking fish roads

Some words don't sink
linger at their own reflection
and babble along, afloat
without direction or depth

The stone wrapped in hand
remembers its destiny, making
3 giant leaps before being cast
to the Other side

visibly mattering
just beneath the surface
smoothly skipping over
in stoic silence.



Image By SAMIN (Own work) [Public domain] of Armand River, via Wikimedia Commons.