Tea (Draft 3)

Tea (Draft 3)

When I’ve wandered in the cold,
I’ve always hoped something would
move me like you do with
approval and encouragement tea,
always hoped, had sanctified
meanders in the cold with thoughts,
hot dreams of you that carried
your stew in my backpack, filled with
drudge stuff, and your precious memorandear
tucked into the pocket for precious notes like gems
something to hold for incantations against
pebbles in the shoes and stumble stones
on the winding up mountain path

Broken trees below the snow line
broken hearts above
misty mountain hawks
splintered memories clawing

Blue skies and fluff at the mountain top.
In a cloud I see your face, a
tea cup and a dove, but

I hear myself scream and
see the grief of my breath
form wispy puffs that fly away

But those sorrows are not of you,
though you do embrace every sparrow,
and when you’d not know
the name of the bird, you’d
christen it cute and lovely like you are

Winding down
there are birds in the sky
and no stumble stones, but
only the scent of tea up my nose
the feel of a memorandear in my pocket

There is sweetness to the air
your valley is near,
could be I’ll stumble
by your house to leave a note
or ring where I learned that
fresh tea is sweet when brewed
for an occasion where eyes meet

and blinks become flutters
a stuttered word divine, because
what would be affirmed in the steep
is the scent of wafting play where
seeping things flow out into
the rivers in two cups
fragrant with cinnamon
and swirly with a word
whispered in the mists
before silence goes to bed

I’ve seen it in a memo.

Ding dong.

— Douglas Gilbert

Tea (Draft 2)

Tea (Draft 2)

When I’ve wandered in the cold,
I’ve always hoped something would
move me like you do with
approval and encouragement tea
always hoped, had sanctified
meanders in the cold with thoughts,
hot dreams of you that carried
your stew in my backpack, filled with
drudge stuff, and your precious memorandear
tucked into the pocket for precious notes like gems
something to hold for incantations against
pebbles in the shoes and stumble stones
on the winding up mountain path

Blue skies and fluff at the mountain top.
In a cloud I see your face and a tea cup.

I hear myself scream and
see the grief of my breath
form wispy puffs that fly away

Winding down
there are birds in the sky
and no stumble stones, but
only the scent of tea up my nose
the feel of a memorandear in my pocket

There is sweetness to the air
your valley is near,
could be I’ll stumble
by your house to leave a note
or ring where I learned that
fresh tea is sweet when brewed
for an occasion where eyes meet

and blinks become flutters
a stuttered word divine, because
what would be affirmed in the steep
is the scent of wafting play where
seeping things flow out into
the rivers in two cups
fragrant with cinnamon
and swirly with a word
whispered in the mists
before silence goes to bed

I’ve seen it in a memo.

Ding dong.

— Douglas Gilbert

Tea (Draft 1)

Tea (Draft 1)

When I’ve wandered in the cold,
I’ve always hoped something would
move me like you do with
approval and encouragement tea
always sanctified meanders in the cold with thoughts,
hot dreams of you that
carry your stew in my backpack, filled with
drudge stuff, and your precious memorandear
tucked into the pocket for precious notes like gems
something to hold for incantations against
pebbles in the shoes and stumble stones
on the winding up mountain path

Blue skies and fluff at the mountain top.
In a cloud I see your face and a tea cup.

I hear myself scream and
see the grief of my breath
form wispy puffs that fly away

Winding down
there are birds in the sky
and no stumble stones, but
only the scent of tea up my nose
the feel of a memorandear in my pocket

There is sweetness to the air
your valley is near,
could be I’ll stumble
by your house to leave a note
or ring where I learned that
fresh tea is sweet when brewed
for an occasion where eyes meet

and blinks become flutters
a stuttered word divine, because
what would be affirmed in the steep
is the scent of wafting play where
seeping things flow out into
the rivers in two cups
fragrant with cinnamon
and swirly with a word
whispered in the mists
before silence goes to bed

I’ve seen it in a memo.

Ding dong.

— Douglas Gilbert

gee what did i click now

I was selecting pictures to be inserted and somehow in the process my computer made extra copies of all the ones I selected… I deleted the copies and started again. Same thing happened. But the upload worked anyway. Now I have 2 copies of each picture stored as a file. Geez, when I WANT to make copies I can’t get it done that fast… Anyway I think the pictures are clearer this time… Just a quick experiment with the new hook-up. Well, it uploaded fast. Now I just have to figure out the wordpress system… I just choose an old picture at random to see how it looks
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