Jour

Jour

Oh muse, where did you go,
like a friend out into the cold?
It’s warmer now,  no snow!
And we won’t have to be so bold.

Plus I have this pretty blank paper,
the pages are already numbered,
and we don’t even have to write of a caper,
that our simple life has encumbered.

We can just start with the mundane,
away from trying to be good,
and avoid the artistic pain,
of when and how and should—

---------------

The jour of journal
coincides
with the jour of journey—
like the seem in dream,
logging the events of a future trip
across a sea called “me.”

A wide sea, infinite
with islands of white sandy beaches,
revealing dancing girls that wear nothing
but grass,
smiling as they welcome me
to their paradise . . . .

and I log it—

and next to the “land ho” I shout,
leads me to another white sandy beach,
where smiles reveal bright white teeth
that cut through skin as I scream in terror,
writhing in pain,

writing in pain,
trying desperately to climb
back into my boat,
and looking back
at the shore—

I log it.