I've been studying, and reading 'The Waste Land' for this blog, but I'm a ways away from coming to any conclusion. In the meantime, as said by Spacehog, I'll write down two poems I just wrote...

A Movie Scene

When the music-of-life stops,
like in slow motion,
and she jumps around noiselessly,
exuberantly, happily,
she receives shivers.
Continues to dance a strange dance.
She is not dancing sexual,
nor any other way--though her arm-hairs stand up.
She is having individual moments
and individual moods,
and she receives each as if a gift.

It is like she is at a funeral service
for someone she loved a long time ago.

She is inspired, and really doesn't dance,
but walks on the sidewalk somewhere, I can't tell.



Death is a Misplaced Object

On the promenade
behind the funeral home
among two geese picking themselves
I recollect: "I have a lot to learn."

My Grandfather John has died.
My father, in a tailored suit,
carries himself differently.
Announces me as: "My son. . . "

By the promenade
the stream searches, and finds,
a green pond filled with lily pads.
Sun sits on leaves.

By a stream, I think of death.
I think of death by water
finding other waters,
or of death just as an individual stream appearing by a road.
Like death,
today seems the first day before the next season,
or like a watershed in the middle of a far away field.