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(The following began as a typically

mundane morning text which

like a runaway train of thought

jumped the tracks

and insisted on living

life on the lam

as an unlikely poem)

Good Morning _________!

Many dreams last night. 

Fears of ineptitude. 

Fears of discovery. 

Longing for acceptance. 

Faking normality, 

as if the night 

brought on

dark judgements 

of it's own.

This morning

my urge to write 

created a  

stubborn paralysis. 

I can’t force it.

That’s why 

this text is 

so full of

affectation.

Sitting on the sofa 

at 7:00 AM

struggling to wake, 

the big red 

abstract painting 

promptly fell 
off the wall

behind me. 

I was too startled 

to be scared. 

Had I been killed

by art 

my life would 

have been

forever punctuated 

by this humorous

final anecdote.

You know how

easily I bleed.

I cut up a peach 

on my cereal...

it was good, 

though these 

particular peaches 

lack pizazz. 

The dominating sun 

invading the window 

makes me feel 

like shrinking

from the politics

of harshest light. 

Debussy’s The Girl with the Flaxen Hair 

just dropped like a record 

on the jukebox radio

making the world 

seem lyrical. 

As this is not

a poem

there’s no pressure 

to clamor for significance. 

Yet, my secret channel

is wide open. 

If I have to do it here

then I’ll do it here. 

Say what comes. 

Let go of my need 

to be logical, 

desirous, 

constructive

in so 

impromptu a venue

and just live 

lovingly

beside everyone 

and everything. 

No judgements, 

no yearning, 

no insistence. 

A mercurial

minded tree 

unstuck from 

the mud.

Peter Valentyne

July 21, 2019