The Art of The Drifting Mind

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The Art Of The Drifting Mind

This is not a case “in defense of the drifting mind”

Or a thesis on “the art of the wandering mind”

Or a theory on “why we gaze”

I hear “mother you are staring”

No surprise, I have it down to a science

I check the boxes on the forms under hobbies and interests

Gazer, starer, dreamer, ponder, netter of poetry

Somewhere in the quiet spaces where the sunlight flickers and rocks

On branch and limb, limb and leaf,

Decidedly undecided whether to rest in the shadows or dance in the radiant puddles of light

The mind births an idea

And the idea becomes art

And the art becomes inspiration

And the inspiration becomes solace

And the solace becomes a balm

And the balm of the drifting mind

Can rest at peace

Her work is done

Until her glance meets the window pane

Through which she pours out

And breathes in

Again

For The Quiet Ones, The Tired Ones, The Hardworking Ones, The Aging Ones: Thank-You

Thank you for joining me as I write out my gratitude, framing it through the lens of poetry. Today is Day Three.
(Joining Tweetspeak Poetry for their poetry prompt this week: Whittles and Wood)

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Tired

Shavings
Sit piled at his weary feet
By his well worn boots that match his face
Leathery lines
Deep crevasses carved by time

No amount of Botox
Were he so inclined, would mend and fill
The valleys of his face
Fitting
As they mirror this, his art
He carves
Dying
Art form
Knives and men
Paired on benches
Fade into the once was

What is it
About carving something from nothing
Must be close to godliness
Bringing form from void
Something from nothing
Bit by bit
Boney fingers
Sweeping along the piece of Hickory
Cryptic
Curling crooked
Like a school boy practicing his cursive

Bit by bit
He whittles away, aiming not for perfection
But simply to pass the time

His shavings blow like thistle seeds, released
By the currents, backdraft
Of the 5:04

He’ll return
Find his place tomorrow, smooth impression
Of his own backside
Made by years of sitting here

Tired of his retirement
Weary from too much rest
Rocking forth and back
To the sounds of

Metal scraping down the tracks
Carrying the 9 to 5’ers home

He and his Hickory
Left to sit, count the minutes
Count the days
Whittle away
What remains

Memories, bit by bit
Fade in messy piles by his weary feet
His Hickory chips

And the tail lights of the 5:04
Dim

He’ll form something from the void
Aiming not for perfection, but simply to pass the time
And pray to God
To grant him rest

(He is so tired, he is so very tired)
Of whittling his life
Away