---

2013
[5]

IT IS THE JOURNEY The pot of gold becomes a bowl of oatmeal, Those moments, if not gone, are fading -- If not far away, then farther apart; When goals and plans melt into moments, Now you are on your way. Bill Purdin: 2223-6

STAY RIGHT HERE I wonder sometimes if I'm so isolated That I lose out experientially. I mean those camels, those pyramids, That Eiffel Tower, that Lenin's Tomb. But then I watch you falling asleep On the couch and think of the days just past Driving, measuring, moving furniture, Hanging curtains, painting touchups, Going for pizza (not for me) Talking with our daughter all day… Well watching you fall asleep on the couch And thinking of what my day was like, I doubt it. It might be nice, but in an odd Thoreauian way I think it might be distractive. So many new Things to factor there than here, in fact, Here I can concentrate on things. Plus I do get out and about, six states, Ten towns, shopping at Whole Foods, I average around 11,000 miles a year Just around here. I know a lot of people, Which makes life fun, and I still have long, long Periods of working alone, singing alone, and Writing alone to satisfy the soul. So going to Fallujah or back to Vietnam, Maybe taking one of those river cruises Down the Bassac again, Or maybe I could go back to Australia sometime. Or maybe visit my sister in Wales For the first time in 40 years. But when one is happy were one is It means something. And I'm going to stay right here Until I figure that out. Bill Purdin / 2/18/13

YOU ARE SEVEN BILLION TO ME It was a day like no other. It was a day like every other. But something happened that day. You. There were two, really. One when you were born. One when I kissed you. You. There are almost seven billion people now. I know some of them. They all mean so much. You. You are everything. You are seven billion to me. You are the world. You. Tomorrow is another day. A day like every other. A day to look forward to. You. With you there is meaning. With you there is true love. With you there is us. You. Happy birthday, Joy. Bill Purdin: 2/3/13

INFUSED When I read or hear something I love It lights a fuse that can burn for years. So that means -- with me infused -- You could be in my poems now. We think the days go by quickly. But they creep by like molasses. Every moment counts. So each little reading or hearing could be the one That does what the one does. The thought of you in those long silences when I sit with hands clasped on elbows And dream through my eleven terabytes, hoping for a word or thought. When I write there are no holds barred. I think you're in there now. In my muse matrix. And then what I think and what I write Becomes a stolen thing, something of you I cannot escape. Do I owe you credit? A footnote somewhere. You placed an idea into my care. It fell to paper God knows where. Bill Purdin 1/28/13

AS THE YEARS GO BY There is a silence in the minds Of children that gets lost As the years go by. A feeling of wonder looking At something for the first time; Of hearing some emotion for the first time; Of doing things for the first time. A silent emptiness waiting to be filled. There's a noise that accumulates in the minds Of people and it distracts us As the years go by. That feeling of losing ground; Of watching our dreams pass by; Of feeling emotions dampened by day-to-day; Of doing the same thing over and over; Of overwhelming yearnings we still have. There is a peace that comes next Like a blanket we slowly go under As the years go by. Bill Purdin: 11/25/12

2012
[18]

THE HAPPY NEW YEAR We are here to inspire each other. We are here to excite each other. About the future. About today. We're here to help each other see That there's nothing we can do About yesterday and that it Doesn't matter unless we let it. Past successes are overdoses We must overcome. Past failures are injuries that We must allow to heal. We are here to give each other Lives worth living. We are here to help each other Find the truth about today. Take your biggest victory ever, Compare it to a smile you instilled. Search and examine, you will never Find life more honestly distilled. Caring for each one near Is the Happy New Year. Bill Purdin: 12282-6

YOU GAVE ME THE DAY Thinking about gifts for you Leaves me filled with doubt. How can I choose a gift for someone Who gave me the day? Not just today -- As if that was not more than enough (And you gave me that, too.) -- but life, really. You gave me that first day. You gave me that first kiss. You gave me the day of the movie. You gave me the day of birth. You gave me the decades of adventure. You gave me a lifetime of freedom and fun. What could I possibly get for you? Bill Purdin: 12232-6

LOADED IN THERE I just sat here this morning crying. The names haunted me. So young. So deserving. Everyone right where they should have been. Stomped out. As if they were nothing. Nothing at all. A school founded in 1956 With a long history of safe children Shattered by the fingers of a young killer As they carefully loaded high impact rounds One after the other -- a child's name on each one -- Each into its place: Charlotte, James, Daniel, Grace, Olivia, Emilie, Josephine, Jack, Ana, Noah, Dylan, Caroline, Madeleine, Jessica, Catherine, Avielle, Chase, Benjamin, Jesse And Allison. All loaded into magazines And readied for use. Six women, all hero educators: Were loaded in there, too. Rachel, Dawn, Nancy, Lauren, Mary, and Victoria The guns and those bullets did exactly What they were designed to do. The killings stole the future, The past, and the present, Us circling slowly in a broken world. I just sat here this morning crying. Bill Purdin: 12/21/12

SENSE OF THINGS There is no need to be overly honest in poetry. We are recording history in the most distant sense. The farthest from reality. Historians always read poetry. We're their last resort. Poets are honest in the important ways: The mental ways, the emotions' ways. We tell it like it was. Only the reader is an is. Exaggeration is just another word for emphasis. Accuracy has no real meaning. Merging stories and experiences creates some disbelief. Who cares? Poems are either alive or dead. Accurate poems never get the chance. Poetry is born in a state of incredulity and confusion That can only result in the rawest of careless observation. It takes a lifetime to make sense of things. There are no phrases like "poetic-accuracy," or "poetically-true," At least outside of satire and derogative, backstabbing politics. No one would take you seriously. But people have told me that I can be inaccurate, Especially in events shared with the reader. (Say we were both in a war.) Readers now "disagree" with me and let me know it. It's not what you think. It's what you feel. And they show it. When my pen inspires emotions, I am happy. What historian would ever say that? A historian would never write about this moment. Yet with each word I sail forth unshored and free. There is no more need to be honest in poetry Than to be poetic in honesty. But even that sounds nice, doesn't it? So. Tell the truth in poetry? Absolutely not. Tell the story and let the truth be aught. Bill Purdin: 11232-6

I LOVE NEW ENGLAND It gets cold in New England And the snow piles up outside. People wrap up in coats and blankets And hide away inside. We all have to work and plan Waiting for a summer's day Keeping warm together Whiling the winters away. All the little flowers Covered in white so deep Blossum in the hearts of little children Dreaming while they sleep. Summertime in New England is For having a good time. It's when lover's hold each other And whisper you are mine. It's for layin' under the branches Of the old shade tree. It's when the sun's so warm It seems to say follow me, follow me. But soon enough those broadleafs Will be falling to the ground And the wonderful temperatures Will be going down, going down. I love to be in New England All year long. To listen to the seasons' changes And hear the willow's song. To feel the foamy waves crash And sense the Pilgrims' pride. Or just sit by the rocky coast And watch the seagulls glide. I love New England It's where I was born and came alive. I love New England, It's where I live and thrive. Bill Purdin: March 6, 1982

THE WINNER TAKES A MOMENT The winner takes a moment. Something he or she's Been waiting for. For a lifetime. Who can blame them? Winner takes all. Didn't ask for it. Just took it. Just desserts. In that moment there was a thought of gratitude: Was it for the others' inept play, or For understanding? Not that it matters. This was a moment of self-indulgence. Hard-earned. Well deserved. Next some head home. Some drop to their knees. Some try to write it all down. First was that thought when In the shock of sudden victory And thrall of actually winning That moment of insanity: You knew it was all about you. Bill Purdin: 1082-6

NOT JUST GOLF Do you know why Everyone has to be Quiet around a golfer? It takes full concentration Of all the senses to do it. Noise distracts one Of the senses. A movement? That's fatal to the effort.. A combination of movement And sound in a moment Of focused mental action? It's much better to be silent. This applies to everything. Not just golf. Bill Purdin: 12222-6

TANTUM QUANTUM I can't fill your emptiness. It's taken years to know this. I wonder in and out of one of my own. I can't be your answer to the question you never ask. I can't be the words you never speak. Your magnum silencium is overwhelming. Like a room I can't find my way out of, Or something I can't remember but keep trying. The mobius loop of love's promise. There is a mirror we stare into. The image is distorted, me and you. Though it looks so normal. Something's just not right. Things that were and aren't; things that could be but won't: Shade the light as we look at things as they are. It must be but it can't be. It can't be but it is. They say time cures all. What if they are right? What if now the cure is and we aren't? Could all of that be gone? Like so many things We swept aside, moving on. Are you going to be Another one of those? You. Bill Purdin: 10/30/12

ALL SO USUAL (dedicated to Felix Baumgartner) It was all so usual Up to a point After that was fine too. It was just that part. Wrapped in manmade protection, I was At the edge of space. No more instructions, no more protocols Time to go. It's time to go. They told me I would spin, but not like that. Still spinning when I stowed the lines. Waking up in freefall is no fun. There's work to do. Broke all the records Except the one I want. In the film, I saw you The quiet patient you. It was a tough, tough one. I'll do better on two. Bill Purdin: 10/14/12/Time: 15:37

STRAINING FOR WONDER We watch crazy TV shows, and The scary chronicle shows, That bring human disaster and tragedy Into our living room and couches. We stare at reality shows that sadly Depict the underbelly of the human state. We see our neighbor's troubles and Silently rejoice. Hey, it's not us. We watch sports and perseverate on The violence, can't get it out of our minds. A fender bender can tie up traffic for miles. We crane to see our politicians stumble. We strain to find some wonder in life. A poet finds it everywhere, even in yesterday's Coffee cup, a broken paper clip and yes Even in the way a hand brushes us As it passes in a rush of pressure to Get to the day. A true eye is given to us all.. The secret of poetry's popularity. The need to make the obvious thrilling Is fused by strains of the obvious willing. Bill Purdin: 12/26/12

OUTSIDE When your feet touch the ground It adds a level of knowing That just can't be visualized. It's subtle, you just know. This doesn't work inside. Those frames and joyces, Those windows and walls, They all deaden the incoming. Inside everything is quiet. Outside everything is alive And you can feel it even if You don't know it. Walking through the neighborhood Is much different than driving through it. Somehow you are more a part of things. Less apart and intruder. More like a tree than salesman. More like the sky than a voter. Outside walking, your feet Are more like bear claws. Bill Purdin: 12/25/12

MAKING EVERYTHING There are days like that Almost everything goes right The "All set." feeling Is everywhere around you. Don't be an ass. The middle of the fairway The easy up-hill putt It all seems so painless Persistence is paying off. Don't be a dope. Deep in the rough The three-putt pain They are just as seductive Something to blame finally. Don't kid yourself. Bill Purdin: 9/9/2012

THE YOU BEING ME "There are terrible decisions That you have to make In business," he said. "The you being me." I was thinking of the quiet The cold winters, the warm fires The deep, deep snow, Seeing your breath exhale extragantly Not just huffing and puffing and Finally seeing a little, if that. Where he was, it gets really cold. People sort of huddle together at home and Work, out and about. People know each other up there. They know what's happening. "It's hard when you work together, Know each other, have agreed and disagreed, Seen each other for years every day almost." The dog enjoyed the walk although we went too far As far as he was concerned. A walk involves Less walking and more goofing around Tugging the leash, learning new tricks, Rolling together in the grass, getting treats. What's with all this walking? But walking Calms my thoughts so sometimes we walk. Like today. We actually tresspassed to see If an old path of my boyhood still existed. It didn't. Just totally overgrown. I looked Down where the path used to be. I remembered Running down there at full steam. Probably from the town police. "We just didn't see things the same way. Is that enough? He bothered other people More than me. I always thought of him As really nice." At first I thought it was tomorrow's game Somehow I missed that it was today. But It was actually an old game with my team At their best. One of the NFL's Top Ten Games. The players seemed a little nimbler, more determined Than they do now. It's only been two years. Do we really fade that quickly? Wisdom replaces Sinew, and holds off disappointment For a while, but in contact sports, It catches up fast. It comes in all flavors: Some delicious, some just okay, and some Utterly displeasing. And not just in sports. Sometimes in sad surrender to consensus. "He'll be all right. He's a smart guy. Vision is A hard thing. You either have it or you don't. The sad thing is you can also Have the wrong vision." The sadness was so unfeigned That it unsettled me. Why not just Do what you've got to do and stop Overthinking everything? Sometimes there Are decisions that you must make. Then You must take what comes of that. You have to be brave and right, Which is an irregular marriage If ever there was one. Bravery rushes in to the rescue. Right takes conscience and concern. You have to be able to blend it every time. The you being me. Bill Purdin: 9/22/12

LOOK AROUND I once wrote a poem and said, "If they don't like this one I'm going to kill myself." (It was a poem of love really and reuniting love at that.) And I really meant it. Because after all What is there without sharing and telling the story? Without allegorical free verses? Anyway, that's food for thought. Who would want A world without studied awe? If people don't like it is it really poetry? There's no answer. If enough people see it someone will like it. Poof! It's poetry again. But what if no one liked it? Hard to imagine. No one liked it. It's all the honesty you can give, All the love you can give. It's all the funny stuff you can give, It's sort of everything to you. About you. True of every poem you write. But no one liked it. What would you do? I think I might kill myself. If I suddenly woke up in a world, where nothing Preoccupies me in this way that most people find odd; A world where I couldn't just sit and stare At a worm trying to crawl back into the ground, Or a dead garter snake, or an at old friend And be filled with wonder? A world where the simple things Are no longer fun to look at, to write about, And to sing about? A world where meeting people and shaking their hands, Or hugging them, or hugging and kissing them, or Spending the day skiing with them, or crying with them, Or helping their dreams come true, And telling their story, is no longer possible? In that sad world of devastating rejection I'm not quite sure what I would do. I might kill myself. I mean, why not? Then there's issue of how. Poets do this all through history. It's a well-known art of the art. So clearly it's an option, although -- as above -- Often spoken in haste and awful worry. It leaves a lot behind. A lot well-meaning people Who may yet speak up. So, on reflection, this option for its Execution and resolution issues Is a path of least resistance Which I avoid. I like to do it the hard way. There is always the rewrite and repost. There is hope of course there is. We all know there are good days. A day like this, perhaps. But there are days, snakes, worms, and love Out there waiting. It's all true. Look around. It may save you. Bill Purdin: 9292

BAD TOILET We worked on a toilet that Wouldn't shut off. At first I said to her, "Try a little firmer flush. Maybe your are too gentle With the handle." That didn't work. Then I decided that I would be in charge Of the handle. No issue with me Being too gentle. That didn't work either. So then I went down Into my workshop Where I found not one But two replacement Toilet fixtures, purchased For just such a situation When this sort of thing happens. I chose one. The one With the most parts. We turned off the water -- The handle is old and Takes all my wrist strength to Turn it either way. You can't really tell If it's going off or on by The turning pressure. You have to remember: This way is off and this way Is on. The loosey lefty Rule doesn't work because It's jammed in a corner, The handle is upside down And you can't see it anyway Because the walls Are so close. It just Could not be more Difficult. So, now we Were faced with a new, And larger project: Replacing all the moving Parts of the toilet. We work together on it. Mopping up the water, Switching tools, putting On the washers and bolts (The wrong way twice). The water On-off handle H ad to be manipulated painfully at Least four separate times To determine if the Connection was tight or Not ... not, not, and then yes. Finally, the connection was good, The washers were positioned Correctly. One last Painful turning of the on off Handle, and voila! It worked. We flushed it twice and it worked. The fill-water turned off Right on time. (We lowered The level to save a little), and the connection did not drip. Job done. I said to her -- after she praised Me for my amazing Handyman-ness -- "The only Difference between me and All those other guys Who say they can't do Anything around the house Is that I am willing to put In the time and the effort." Then I hugged her closer and added "Just like in this relationship." Without a second's hesitation she said, "What? I'm a bad toilet?? Bill Purdin: 8/9/12

OLD FRIEND You and I once did crazy things. Abusing our youth as we should have. We skied, we golfed, we laughed like fools -- Which of course we were. Wasting day after day in pursuit of pleasure And experience, with wanton disregard For the responsibilites and weightiness of Life impending. We just pushed off A nd swept down the hill, Laughing all the way. Seeing you again today was worrisome. What would you think of me now? Would I seem old and done to you? Would I seem someone who you no longer even knew? And, for me, would you still love fun like you did? Would there still be a little crazy left? I was hanging out waiting for you to show up As usual. I was wondering if you would even know me. I was wondering if I would even know you. So many years since we did all of that. So many things intervening now, lives so different. What would you ... "Hi, Bill." There you were. I knew you. The sound of your voice. Those hands. That look in your eyes. That smile. And, we were off. Down the hill. Just like before. Laughing all the way. Bill Purdin: 822-6

DEAD WORLD WALKING Half of the people who ever lived are still alive. There's no escaping that everyone dies. Despite our dreams and our cries, It's just a crazy mystic shuck and jive. Can't remember your own birth. Can't imagine your own death. It's a deep, slow cleansing breath. Take it for what it's worth. Living is an art ill applied, But it's all we've got. From a barrel like blasting shot It scatters us far and wide. There is no turning back, No time when things were better From the homeless to the jet setter In a mansion or a hapless shack. And who can dispute such clarity? "All that, that is, is," he said. Like all, who were, were ... he's dead. Like us, who are, are ... no charity. In this dead world dancing ... there's no winners. Whatever lies beyond, lies beyond, we can't go. Though one returned they say, we'll never know. It's a world of dreamers; dazed, worn-out sinners. He forgave me everything. Oh how I loved him. She taught me so, so much. Oh how I should have told her. We were friends forever. Oh how I miss you. So many things left unsaid. Oh how I could have said them. Imagine. Half of the people who ever lived are still alive. There's no escaping that everyone dies. Despite our dreams and our cries, It's just a crazy mystic shuck and jive. Remember, whatever we did, and said, and tried, Half of the people who ever lived ... ... have never died. Bill Purdin: 6/22/2012

2011
[24]

THE NEW YEAR The New Year was meant to be a clean slate. But it's smeared with last night's Frantic celebration's dirty plate. The New Year was the world born anew But now it's just a gauzey hangover We've all got to get through. It was time off, to be sure, but Returning to work we are not happy. We change clothes, put on pressed shirts But anger festers just beneath the Ready-for-work surface and it hurts. It's sad really these plastic pressures Press us down like a cheap suit Trampled on the party floor. Pressures of consumption and earning; Pressures of economy and politics; Pressures of age and war; Pressures of whatsgoingtohappennext? Whatsitallfor? The New Year was meant to be a clean slate. But it's smeared with last night's Frantic celebration's dirty plate. The New Year was the world born anew But now it's just a gauzey hangover We've all got to get through. Bill Purdin:12/31/11

MERRY Sleeping in heavenly peace eludes many today. Watching television we see people just like us Homeless, hopeless, terrified of the future And struggling in a land of plenty. Where once all was calm and all was bright Today there is the greedy darkness that lurks Behind the layoffs and losses And shades the bright into fright. Glories still stream from heaven afar. There are those hand-in-hand moments of joy, The sense of "luck" in the worst of times. America's poetry still finds words and rhymes. The amber waves of grain, somehow less redeeming. Christmas morn is coming, the tree is gleaming, Those radiant beams and that verdant field; Where is the dream, the hope, the love that healed? Bill Purdin: 12/22/11

"The heart can ache like no other muscle." The heart can ache like no other muscle. The pain is startling and agonizingly deep. It reaches past our bodies into our souls And stays there thrashing around, relentless In its power. Like an internal hurricane feeding off The hot waters of our discontent It storms into everything and blackens Our horizon with only more and more Dark imaginings. There is no cure. But There Is Hope. Bill Purdin:8/8/2005

RICH VEINS It's been going on for decades: A decade of childhood sadness, A decade of disaster and war, A decade of greed and marriage, A decade of building and destruction, A decade of slowing and sorrow, A decade of waiting for tomorrow. Remembering it all is a burden and a hazy benefit. The strangest lessons seep and bleed out At the oddest times. Always too late of course, like A tortuous mentor who reminds you Of mistakes you just made again, or A navigator who says, Hey, that was our turn. There were moments that I wish I could Live over and over. There were moments I wish I could Forget; more like obliterate. But the good ones fade and the bad ones bloom. We get no choice in our history. What is written is written by a cold hand We do not command. Each day is a daunting stress factory From up 'till down. Things work out, It's true. But still, one goes through Not over like a soaring eagle thrown Or under like a lowly worm. We may wish one of those, But beating hearts propel us, Like rich blood through open veins. Bill Purdin, 11/15/11

UNWINDING THE SNARLS (2) It comes down to knowing the difference Between the truth and the lies It takes time to figure all of this out But once it's done how beautifully that flag flies. Like ropes entangled, twisted and tight, We struggle with these tempting thoughts: Gifts wrapped in twined misgivings. Still we reach for more, even though Like square pegs we know it will hurt Driving those emotions into hearts already sore. The way things are has been less than we had hoped. And yet that travelled road bends and turns And each revealed stretch seen many times Still promises a different view, but disappoints. It's always the same: those choices, those snarls. Hands tied, we struggle against the repetitive gloom: There must be more. There must be more. There must be more. Unwinding the snarles, freeing the heart Trying something truly new Is scary to those who choose the devil we know And miss the beauty trying to get through. The barrier of history is a tough one. It has no fire escape, no way around. It's choices we made and made again And suffered through and through Until in desperate over and over ennui We are willing to try anything. Then a door opens to a world unseen By the previous us who, fettered to tangles, And tangled in doubt, thought we knew. Knots at first are tight and balled But, unwinding, they fall apart. The tension that held, released by effort – Not brute but patient. The cords of Gnarling sinew relaxed and the world We feared fell away. Unwinding the snarles, freeing the heart And trying something truly new Is scary to those who choose the devil we know And miss the beauty trying to get through. Bill Purdin: 10/18/11

A VAST UNCERTAINTY ALWAYS LURKS It comes on suddenly like someone out of nowhere. It's disorienting and confusing. No matter how hard I try I am defenseless. Afterward I am sometimes ashamed, sometimes angry; There is no predicting it. A vast uncertainty always lurks: Somewhere between here and now; somewhere between peace and dread. In wonder I watch so many people who don't even notice it or who don't really care. I envy their ambivilance and nonchalance in the face of it. It makes me feel small in my manic detailing. It makes me wish I could be so unknowing, It makes me wish I could be so unaware, It makes wish I could be so self-absorbed in that way. It would be happier surrounded by unquestioned assumptions, It would be happier surrounded by hard-headed convictions, and It would be happier surrounded by unshakeable preconceptions. I realize I may well be harboring those, but "in another dress," as the poet said. In concentric circles, my logic bound, to still other forms of wrong instead. But how can I be sure? What do I know? The moment comes and takes just a second to go. Bill Purdin: 9/29/11

(N)EVERMORE There were days when we fought A war that shook us And made us both answer Questions that never should have been asked. When love is deep, the waters are not still. When passion is surging there is No place to hide, no weapon banned. Then there came a Pause of tumult, a slow-grow Truce in the love war when, Like two exhausted wrestlers spent, We just ran out of steam; Frustrated anger petered out To an unresolvable slowdown, A lengthening hiatus, A livable segway Into something new. That was years ago, Now when I look over At her, and breathe with her, And sleep with her, and love her I think of a strange word from a Strange poem: Nevermore. The struggle's over, Love always wins. Evermore. Bill Purdin: 8/7/11

WHEN A PERSON LIKE THAT DIES Some people just captivate. We stare at them with wide open awe. Their words are words we've heard before But never with that emotion, that intensity That tear-duct searing rip out That leaves us breathless with shock And fear and wonder and that craving For more and more and more. Like poets aflame They transcend and bring us A world so suddenly real: A glimpse into how things really are, That with their each straining effort We feel our eking lives passing Too fast, too slow, too feebly. We know we are wasting every moment Without such feeling, without such zeal, Without such hopelessness and such fear; Without such love and such emptiness. Without such truth. When a person like that dies it's no wonder. How could they keep living Among our compromises and our lies? How could one so true Who gave it all to us, Who drained everything out To the last refrain, do anything else? When a person like that dies it's no wonder. It leaves an emptiness Like a word we can't remember, A lost train of thought. It leaves us drifting in it's crater. We want to fill it, but it Just stays empty. Like a tune we can't forget But will never be able to sing; When a person like that dies, It's the death of everything. Bill Purdin: 7/29/11 For Amy Winehouse, 1983-2011

SHE ONLY LAUGHS INSIDE The sun was oppressive and hot. The air was heavy Like a burden we had put down to rest. We were sitting together over a light lunch In the shade, there was a soft breeze. "It's nice," I said. Silence. "Here together," I added. She said nothing. I looked over at her. Time passed as the flowers Watched the sun move slightly higher. I was still looking over at her. "What?" she said. "Did you hear me?" I asked. "Yes" she said. "I heard you." I searched her for a response. Even the flowers were nodding. Nothing. "What? she repeated. "I answered." "No you didn't." "I did too," she said. "In my head." And therein lies the unresolvable, the unfathomable Difference in this world between people who Actually say things they are thinking And those who think things and But never actually say them. Somehow, in their heads, this is an equivalency. Perhaps, in their heads, they are conversationalists Who evoke emotion and enrichment; In their heads they are funny and endearing. They participate fully in the world, in their heads. But we are left with an inappropriate emptiness That, in their heads, they have filled to overflowing With effervescence; with personality and purpose. Inside, they are fully functioning in the give and take Of life. They are true players in the game. Inside, they are roiling with opinions and pithy tidbits That bring down the house and that stir the passions. Inside, where this realm of wonder (which I long To share with her) exists, they rock a world That none can see. Watching her finish her gazpacho and pita, with a long Draft of iced tea and lemon, I saw her eyes close In a small ecstasy. Inside, I knew, She was in the throws of pleasure. She put down Her glass and touched the napkin to her lips, like Kissing a lover who has done well. She looked Over at me, said nothing. She shook her head And there was a brief impression of a smile Forming just on the curve of her lower lip. I had the feeling she was laughing at me. Inside. In a way, we were sharing a joke. Inside, it was really funny. Just sitting there, finishing lunch, With the flowers watching, the hot air Still pressing, in silence, not a sound except The birds and bugs and the leaves Rustling in the summer heat. She was looking at me. It surprised me. For a moment It seemed like She wanted To say Something, But the moment Passed without A word. In her head, I could tell, She had said it perfectly. Bill Purdin: July 24, 2011

FATHER'S DAY It can come at any time. It's the day you realize that you are. It might be at birth. You could have been the first To touch her, still slimy, still attached. It could be the moment they handed you The scissors to cut the cord and you did, Wondering what just happened. It might the night you were holding her, Mother asleep upstairs. She was crying in your arms, What to do ... you gave her her first bottle. She liked it. It might have been that moment When you supplied the answer. It might have been one night in the hospital. It could have been when a friend hurt her. It could have been that first bike ride When you let her go... but probably not. It could have been a boat ride, It could have been a carnival ride, It might have been when you taught her to ski. Probably not those either. It might have been some moment in the months Of teaching her to drive. It might have been when business kept you From an important event and you knew You would rather have been with her. It might have been the night you and her mother Faught until the door opened and you stepped outside But could not leave. It could have been then. It could have been when you left her On the curb at college and drove away. You remember how the steering wheel felt that day, The same steering wheel she learned on. It could have been the first time you cried With the joy of loving her. It could have been the time she called just to talk. It could have been the night you returned home After helping her move into her condo, when You sat down in your chair and felt so alone and Yet so happy. It could have been that moment, That sweet, sad moment when you realized that Your happiness is only found in hers, even if It means sitting here missing her. Maybe it's really that Father's Moment, When you realize what it all means. Or maybe it's a lifetime that feels like a moment. When she comes over this morning, And says, "Happy Father's Day, Dad," I bet I'll know. I'm sure I'll know. Bill Purdin: 6/9/11

IMAGINE THAT Imagine that ... despite the threat of dire everything; All of life's bear-downs and beat-downs; Those beguiling and bewitching triumphs; Those horrifying and depressing failures; The principalities of prejudgment and assumption That enslave us at every turn and twist; The overwhelming powers of beauty and wealth That drag us to comparisons and prejudice; All of the sadnesses of enervating letdowns That flatten us into a wrung-out state of going nowhere; Those drag-a-long bags that we cannot change; Those dreadful futures coming without pause; The heights to which we are ordered but cannot go; The depths to which we go but are taught to fight; And all of those people who stare and talk; That despite it all, we still find happiness Beyond our wildest dreams; so rich we could not have Planned it on our own; so fulfilling that contentment Seeps in all around us like the aroma of spring lilacs Or a loving embrace that fills us with peace? Imagine that. Imagine that. Imagine that. Imagine that. Bill Purdin: 6/6/11

I DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKING FLAG He handed it to me as though it were a treasure, And I held it as though it were precious. I could feel the embroidery The stitching, the silky nylon. It was folded tight like a package Ready for shipping or a like a container To keep it from running away. Not its usual shape, flowing free and wide In the wind, now it was a triangle of blue No red showing, no life, nothing like you. The officer who handed it me, His face beneath that soldier's hat With its shiny black brim, Looked at me with experienced sad eyes. I was looking in his for you. The world caved in, I leaned on the casket My tears were falling People helped me up. I had lost control. Nothing seemed to be real. I was Spinning in a dark place, unbelieving. This morning I had planned my clothes, My shoes, my jewelry. I stood in Front of the mirror smoothing the black cloth And looking at my hair, looking at my face. I remember turning and looking back at myself And thinking of you. I watched your casket go down. Then I was in the car. The back seat. We were leaving. I looked back, they Were clearing the grave site, your grave site. I was leaving you there. I was crying again. Alone. There was nothing I could see through My eyes awash with grief and worry. You, dead, gone, buried. That flag. I was still holding that damned flag. Some of the folds had come loose From my clenched grip.I dropped it in my lap And looked down. There it was Streaked, wrinkled with sweat and tears, Some red showing now. I had messed up the tight folds. I wanted to say, when he handed it to me, I don't want your fucking flag. I want you back. I want you back. As the car turned onto our street And I saw our house our driveway Coming, I started to tuck the folds Back together, to make it look better I tried to smooth its neatness back. You would not like it If it were not nice and neat And tight and official looking. I wanted to say, when he handed it to me, I don't want your fucking flag. I want you back. I want you back. When I walked into our house I was carrying it hard pressed Against my heart, against my breast. Bill Purdin: 612/11

I am a dead soldier, But I'm not sure which one. I remember my death like it was yesterday. I can still smell the cordite and blood I remember the relief when I died. I remember my family's pain At the funeral. I remember every word. I remember when they cut off my uniform And told me it would be okay. I remember the moment I was shot I remember when the world blew up. I am a dead soldier Who still walks among you. I remember my buddies, they are dead too. I watched them fall like shell casings One after the other, all in a long arching line. I read their files and know their stories I was there and I am still here Wondering wondering why. Death disappointingly offers no answers. I still feel uncertain of my place. I still seek shadows and expect Rooms to explode. Oh sure, there are days When the sun rises and I feel the warmth. But mostly I lurk here among you A shadow in the shadows Watching but never seen. I am a dead soldier, Walking among you. You with your coffee to go, A cellphone in your ear. Me with those memories: What am I'm doing here? Bill Purdin: 3/31/11

OR We can turn from super sophisticated To cowering coward in the blink of a tsunami Or a earthquake or a gunshot. We can change from confident to scardy cat At the notice of a door left open or the Sight of someone we don't know. We can turn from arrogant to idiot With just an unadjusted question That we'd not thought of. We all live on tetonic plates that Can shift at any time. We all live In the path of potential tidal waves That can wash us away. We balance on a web of shifting threads That vibrate with thoughts and things Over which we have no control. Or We live in a matrix of choices made Decisions taken and actions evoked That we did and cannot undo. Are we victims or victors? Are we helpless, hapless and trapped In a world not of our doing? Or are we architects. time travelers With options unbounded, everything new? Answering one question answers all. Our lives attest our point of view. Are we free, or lost in thrall? Bill Purdin: 3/26/11

AN EARTHQUAKE OCCURRED The world split in two. Everything fell from the sky. I was running for you. There was nothing to do but die. Every dream we shared Our hopes imploding No time to be scared With the world exploding. Then there was no sound Then there was no light Threads of life unwound No wrong no right. The world split in two. Everything fell from the sky. I was running for you. There was nothing to do but die. Bill Purdin, 3/12/11

LIGHTING THE WAY I wish you could read My poems the way I do. My memories race along With the words I write and, More than just keeping up, They scream at me. Don't leave that out, you coward. Never ever say that, you fool. I tread cautiously on history, But they kick and scream And throw things at me: Change this, change that! They never rest, ferocious. Even as I write the peoms They are changing them. Before I write them They are steering and forcing My thoughts into places I really don't want to go. Their intensity lights a way To where I never meant to go. Their fear turns off all the lights, And leaves me in the dark: Where I never want to be . Alone. Then wanting them to Come back and show me more. When I finish writing I always feel drained Of volition, wondering Why I just did that. I wish you could read My poems the way I do. Bill Purdin, 3/7/11

I WANNA BE YOU (#10) The last of a decalogy. I see you in the mirror some mornings But I don't recognize you every time. You seem so clear-headed and certain, So free of the terrors that haunt me Like ghosts that become real Hardening into things that chase Me from where I hide and attack With wrenchings and truth that shake Everything loose until I fall in pieces To the cold ground of lost worth. I see you in the mirror some mornings So bright-eyed as though those years Of war and warring, of fighting in all Directions; no trust, no friends, No belonging, nowhere to go to be safe, As if all those years were just nothing, Not real, gone in that gleaming smile That flares over me. Blinds me. I see you in the mirror some mornings Combing your hair and straightening things. You seem so put together and happy. You hold yourself as though secure In your place. Confident. Where, I wonder, Do you get that? Hasn't the world Smashed you down daily like a bug? Haven't you seen life dwindling into kindling; All the flames turned to smoulder? Hasn't love crushed you yet? Hasn't Betrayal stained your countenance With down-turning smiles? Don't you Know that it's all like those rocks On the beach getting ground down to sand? I see you in the mirror some mornings; It makes me laugh. Are you so naive That you still believe in good and goodness? Hasn't time sifted those myths out yet? Look at you in your clean shirt and clear face, Where do you think you are going anyway? Do you really believe today will be the day? Do you still believe in love and trust? Really? It's hard to believe. I'm looking In your eyes. We blink together. Now you are smiling at me. It feels nice. I want to be you, some mornings. If I could be the me like you It would be the best possible me. And, that's the you I really wanna be. Bill Purdin: 2/16/11

I WANNA BE YOU (#9) You watch the winds, eyes glancing So subtly many just don't notice. Friends need to keep an eye on you Because you won't decide until You feel the breeze. It's always Something like, we'll see, it's hard to tell; Or, it's just the way it is, I could do nothing. The passive doorway you monitor Is the in and out for important things But you mask it all in a helpless excuse Of it's just the way things are. Years of friendship seem shammy As you step aside to the inevitable, As you put it. I wonder why Are you there holding the keys When really you never take a chance A stand, a hand and say, here, Let me show you the, or a, way? The people around know you are Important only in the way you dodge Decisions. You must be gotten Around somehow like a winter pothole Or a slow driver in the fast lane. Risky it is to pass you, and not. You are an unreal reality; A shadow with a gun. A friend Who is not in the end. You prosper in your grayness. You are near, but never at, The height of things. Your role Is to stop and turn and churn The pot, to be the missed bone, The one left standing, the spot on The window that cannot be reached. We stare through you wishing you Were not there, but there you always are. I sort of want to be you, Only to stop what you do. Bill Purdin: 2/10/11

I WANNA BE YOU (#8) You can change history, a real talent. You can rearrange reality so that Even the true-thinkers bend. Your way of rethinking and reliving Moments with a creative twist Makes C.S. Lewis look like a loser Who just couldn't convince: The Jabberwock was a joker-walk Compared to your re-viewing. In your self-penumbra, your shadow world, You rule like a dictator of a whole nation That sees what you see, hears what you hear And knows what you know. The pile-on Is daunting and diffusing and who Can compete with the stone wall Of sure knowledge that exists in Your intentions and your hopes? Who can fight to knock that down? Who can pin-prick that bubble, So tenuous and gossimer-like That even the slight gust or turn of lip Can explode it all in a poof felt Round your world like a gun shot Or a tsunami or a soft tear that fell From a cheek to the breakfast table? Who would do that? Not me. I'd rather climb in And see the world as you do. As if I were you. Bill Purdin: 2/2/11

I WANNA BE YOU (#7) You always are moving fast, going. In the gym you move from machine To machine like a demon; At work you are always on a mission. You drive quickly and efficiently From point to point. You never seem to look around Or wonder about surroundings. You know where you are and You know where you're going next. It's amazing. It makes me feel Like a directionless slacker Drifting through life without a Lease or license, sort of Sniffing my way along not really Going anywhere. I do get things Done, my friends think I am super Productive, but I've heard it said That I never look that busy, That I never seem to be in the hurry That drives you with such purpose. I walk; you run I wonder; you just know I turn back, look for fun You just go, go, go, go. I sort of wish I could be you I just can't figure how to. Bill Purdin: 1/29/11

I WANNA BE YOU (#6) Oh, so worry-free you are. So breezy with the praise, so confident Of how things go. My hands tremble With worry, trouble around every corner, But you walk with the gods of luck And happy times never ever ending. I stare at things coming my way as I Did in the war: bullets to dodge, Rooms waiting to explode, everything In tenuous flux, uncertainty edging Every moment. Life is a blood sport Adventure to me, for you it's A walk in the park on a warm Summer's day, hand-in-hand with A lover who will never leave. Oh, so worry-free you are. The world is a safe place, a haven; Sighs of gratitude and contentment. You sleep so well, no twisting sheets, No sudden awakes in vast confusion, No nights that will never end. Each morning the world is born anew. Oh, how I wish I were you. Bill Purdin: 1/22/11

I WANNA BE YOU (#5) You are so beautiful, all eyes turn As you walk in and walk out. To me it seems as if you have it all Immediate approval, restless stirrings Wanting to know more, allure. For me there are memories of things That vaguely approached your high status But only once or twice (and I was lucky). Regally you move around among us As though annointed with the oil That never runs out; perpetual motion, Never ending yearning, always being wanted. It could be like a reign of joy and Fulfillment for you, everything goes as planned. Or, it could be a prison of prejudgement That haunts the real you like a ghost You cannot elude or a dream that won't Disappate in the morning's new light. It could a lifelong party of exuberance And camaraderie, full of happy happy times. It could be a lifelong disquise, a mask, That cuts you off from all things real. It might be a confidence builder that Lifts you to the highest levels so easily. It could be a confidence disaster that Locks you in a room where you never know. I want to be you. But, I don't want to be you. Do you ever think that You don't want to be you? Bill Purdin: 1/18/11

I WANNA BE YOU ( #4) Your gray hair and mild eyes Whisper of a lifetime, perhaps, Full of rich memories and battles fought, Some lost, that has woven a sort of Mozaic-quilt that you can pull over you As you sit there looking at me. There are quilt patches that clearly show Quick repair and stitches That could have been better. It really is a little too small. Perhaps it's still unfinished. I'm sitting here in the ambient Reality of the room, but you? You have that blanket. You can throw it off And use it as a pillow when it's warm. You can use it, as now you do, to stave Off the cold that's coming. It's a shield you've earned, I think. Your gray hair and mild eyes; Were you always so peacefully blended? Or did your hair once blow long in The winds of youth and recklessness? Did your eyes once have that talon-thrusting Intensity that drove up profit charts and Other people crazy? Did some of those Patches come with blood, smoke and flames? Were some torn out of other lives with tears? You seem to hiding some underneath, or Maybe protecting them? When it's your turn to speak You often let it pass, unspeaking. Let others burn their bridges, do you think that? Or do you just like to listen now, like a afficionado At a symphony who hears all the nuances and Subtlities of vibrations and techniques and knows Exactly what the composer intended even with Your eyes closed and your hands folded Softly, untensed now, those clinches gone forever? Or are you in there, behind all of this, scared of The coming inexorability? Worried about all that You have done? Regretful of so many things past? Are you in there, tremorous with pain, Worried of being called out, starring in your own Tragedy, now alone, driven back onto Yourself and your undeniable memories, Your lack of glory and lack of courage, Assignations of doubt and no way out? Sitting here like a self-imposed prisoner are you Wishing to God you were somewhere else? Somewhere young and free again? It's like looking into one of the mirror-on-miirrors Rooms where the images telescope away repeating, Ever smaller but never disappearing, sort of Bending off into eternity: me looking at you You looking at me. Your gray hair and mild eyes, and mine Seem to blend together into a long, tapering Spear thrusting into our mirror As far our eyes can see. I want to be you. Do you want to be me? Bill Purdin: 1/8/11

I WANNA BE YOU ( #3) You're so young and new, Like a year beginning, or a lifetime. You even smell new, no taint of Things dragging behind you. You are so wide-eyed and excited Like someone who just woke up On Saturday with nothing to do. I can pick up you in my arms Like a book or a painting except There is nothing on your pages Nothing on your canvass. It's easy to be you, I think. You don't have years of mistakes, And worse, years of success, To guide you or misguide you. You watch a shadow across the Ceiling like it was the space shuttle Taking off. You feel a hand on your Shoulder and reach to touch back. No sense of what-does-he-want, What-should-I-do. Just a natural Reflex to touch when touched, To look back when looked at. You don't know the dangers of Eye-to-eye contact. You don't know that Touching is a string of events. To you, so new, life is just life. Breathing in breathing out, Looking out; not looking in yet. So free. I wanna be you, And still be me. Bill Purdin: 1/2/11

2010
[11]

I WANNA BE YOU ( #2) You see the world as options With you in charge of it all. There is nothing you cannot have. There is nothing you cannot do. There is no one who stands in your way. Like Ozymandias you compel us all To look on your works and despair. Those who work in your shadow quiver Under this laser gaze. Not in fear For you are kind in the sense of Forgiving those on a lower perch Who cannot see as far, but from Doubt that they can say it properly Or that they can do it with the dispatch You require. The dread you spread Is just another option you choose: It's easier. Explaining is tiresome. Judging yes or no is like Hand-over-handing up a thick rope Climbing to the uppermost Until there you are up there, Suspended. All options exercised But now at the top you have Only one option Left. When you look down From way up there Can you see Me? Bill Purdin: 12/29/10

I WANNA BE YOU ( #1) The way you see everything as something dodgeable. I always want to tackle things like it's a game. You always see a way out. I only see a hundred ways in. You can fall asleep anytime, anywhere. I need a world set right to sleep tight. You seem to have an inner peace with all things. I am a maelstrom of disquiet. You seem unruffled by the world's parade. I twist in agonized empathy, nothing too small. You can go on despite something bad. I linger there, fester there, twist and turn still there. Your memory is selective and formidible. Mine is unspecified, random and undependable. Everyone loves you from afar. I let people in and they question me with sharpness. You keep it all in. I can keep nothing in. You love a routine. I change everything to avoid routines. You practice temperance in all things. I practice excess in all things. You never laugh for no reason. I do and offend people for no reason. I wanna be you: happy and loving. I wanna be you: content and accepting. I wanna be you: except for one problem. You fell in love with me. Bill Purdin: 12/27/10

SHE LOVES ME SHE LOVES ME NOT Watching her is my national pastime. But It wasn't always that way. As time goes by She became more and more beautiful And interesting to me. In years ago I was too busy, too important, too whatnot To really pay attention but she was still there. Those days swizzled by like flaking cards Or the view from a plane window at the runway. The wonders blurred in purpose, all Those things I now find so fascinating Were there and then too, but who had The time? Who had the time? She certainly was going back and forth To work, and getting ready every morning. Now, this process of getting ready Is enthralling to me. I stroll by and watch Her blow dry her hair, captivated by how She is looking at herself in the mirror. Does she see what I see? The beauty? The grace? The purpose? The gentle love In preparing for her day– not for herself, No never that–for others? Just so. So that nothing interferes with her giving To others. So that no one wonders "Is she having a bad day?" Or "She looks tired this Friday." Everything Must be right so that effectiveness Is unimpeded. No impediments allowed. She makes oatmeal in a show of multitasking Dexterity beyond belief. Boiling, cutting Fruits, checking the coffee, setting the table, Getting dressed, checking weather, Taking a phone call, and it always comes Out perfectly. I drive her to work sometimes now, Something I also never did back in the Wizzing days of my conceit. She loads All of the work she brought home–and got done Somehow–into the back seat and jumps into The front seat with a whooosh of gentle perfume And fresh air from outside, looks at me and says "Off we go." On the drive she is piecing together The jigsaw of our day, her day. Dinner tonight, "I'll be home later (5:00 p.m.)" A discussion Of surprising detail about our daughter or An insight into something she read in the paper. Then we pull up, a soft kiss and I watch her Carry three bags full of stuff, teachers' stuff, Into the school. I think how lucky they are To have someone like her on their payroll. I remember when she worked for me, Hard days for her, since loving me is A complicated she-loves-me- She-loves-me-not-task that rises and falls In her with hard breathing like a man working Or a woman in labor. To me it was so easy. I do and done. Enough said. But as the years have gone by, I see how wrong That was. How mistaken I was. Like that blurring view out the window Of a speeding airplane, I thought I lofted Into a higher orbit than that, but really I was a in a low, low earth orbit, more like a rut Of not ready, or not caring, and of assumptions That were true, like she loves me, but were Harsh like petals torn out of beautiful things And cast to the wind as if nothing mattered But the capricious outcome of a child's game. She loves me, she loves me not... As though it will all turn on chance in the end When in truth it had nothing to do with chance. It was a miracle of love tested, tried and found Not wanting. I watched her yesterday, walking Into her school. Our kaleidoscope of together Mirroring through my thoughts. I watched her Press the button on the door, asking for permission To enter the security-minded building. Her finger Was soft pushing, gently, not let-me-in urging. The cold morning frosted her breath in the December air. She turned and smiled at me, Her hair jostled softly with the movement. She didn't see my tears. Tears of love That I cannot control. I have lost control now. Now my thoughts cannot hide me, My preoccupations have evaporated. Now I am free to feel a moment So rich and yet so everyday. A moment so Many just let go blurring past. No pause in awe. Then I was once like that. But now The she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not Is a song of emotion and devotion, A moment to moment unfolding Something I adore and cherish. As I drove home alone I felt the alone but it soothed me Because alone is a feeling that Comes from together. That little Thought had me smiling as I Arrived, turned off the car And walked toward our house. The cold air iced leftover tear smudges But they warmed away once I got inside. Bill Purdin: 12/11/10

THREESCORE YEARS AND THEN They move together through time as though It were all eternal. There was no aisle They ever walked down, no honeymoon, just I do and back to work. There are memories, though. Flowers in her hair, a near fatal ditch and run for him. The way her willingness warmed the beginning. His interest in idle weekends and being together. She can remember the sense of finally finding another Who shared and wanted all that she wanted. He can remember loving her at first sight. The years blurred by with the speed of life and blinking eyes. He remembers when she made him feel like a whole man She remembers a sense of home and real love. The years intervened like ax blows, the tree shook Was wounded, scarred, but stands. There were terrible events that would not end, That hid beauty in souls contorted, in ends and means. There were festival times when laughter racked them all. There were times of extravagance and of near destruction. There were times of recovery and of deep, fast decline. There were moments like vicious hands on throats That nearly choked it all out, then there were times Of majestic forgiveness and healing, times of such Closeness that those isle-less, honeymoon-less beginnings Were a gray morning to a sun-warmed afternoon. Basking times those were. And always interrupted With new worries and old ones they thought were gone; Ax blows again, wedging into their contentment Flying chips of dreams, of doubt in all directions; They treated each other like a cheap date, a dispensable Bauble that could be cast aside without a thought; though So precious, so relished, so vital to them both. And, yet on they went. At times hand-in-hand, at times In hand-to-hand combat. Battle weary but never Surrendering, life at sword's point; no battle too small, No fear too large to grapple to grasp to gasp for air. There were years when they were always together Almost boring each other couch-to-couch. There were years when they lost each other in work And thrill-seeking. There were years when he disappeared Into old terrors and when she disappeared into a room of her own. There was another pair of eyes on them through it all. She watched and thought and never took sides. She Knew them as no one else knew them. She was there for Everything. But it was always them, and their way. Their defiance, their love, their pride, their stubbornness, Their joy, their deep sadness, their willingness to share, To forgive, to start over, to keep going, to get it done No matter what. The crazy phases of life with him, The steadiness of everything and absolutely nothing with her. They kept it up when everyone thought they wouldn't. They stayed the course even when the course disappeared. For thirty years they stayed together, thirty for her, Thirty for him, both so different they must be added up. Not merely thirty years. That overlooks something so Essential that anyone might miss it like a mountain In the background or a tree grown from a seed cup. After sixty years, hers and his, They seem happy with all that is: The times to come and times ago: Joy that only true love can bestow. Bill Purdin: 11/27/2010

THERE IS A DEATH Like getting out of a broken down car. Like a marriage that's gone dry; A love that's left an awful scar. An answer with no question why. Like a routine that's strangling you. You've been your enemy so long A friendship just grew and grew; Saw it happen, knew it was all wrong. Suddenly you're in shambles. You thought you had it but it had you. A mess you made with all your gambles: What are you going to do? Out of control, you wasted it all On being right, avoiding every fall. On being humanless at all cost. Staying away, staying lost. Like the walking dead you now move without assist. Groping among the flowers you knew did not exist. Bill Purdin: 8/19/10

RIPPLES LIKE TSUNAMIS There is a dream I have... That on one of my birthdays I can wake up serene and happy Without a care in the world. That I move through the day Doing things for those around me Without the baggage draggage. That those I love share the joy Of a day set aside Of everything true and everything tried. That on just one of my birthdays It's peaceful sun up to sun down Selfishness and disregard nowhere found. That every hour is spent in productive try Of building for each other and unwinding The snarls of twisted years gone by. I cook and everyone's happy I build and everyone's happy We rest together and everyone's happy. But it has never happened yet. There are heaps of burned out candles Of dreams that never happened. There are broken dishes, tossed aside presents Waiting to be taken out on trash day That never comes. There are pools of tears that run so deep and still That even the slightest motion sends Ripples like tsunamis to Earth's ends. There is a dream I have. Of a peaceful day in harmony With all around, with all around. Most likely it will occur around my grave. They will stand and hands will touch. And say we wasted so, so much. Bill Purdin--73110

SHE KNEW IT MORE THAN I SAID IT She turned and looked in my eyes How can you criticize? Softly beside me, she is thinking. We ride along as though flying through the air. The world is still, we're sinking Lost in thoughts, I look over, she's still there. A careless word drifts on thought She knew it more than I said it. My mind threw it, it was caught Her softness, her confidence hit. She turned and looked in my eyes How can you criticize? There was a long day ahead, Much to do. She was looking, and looking said, It's always up to you. Her hand in mine, lips on lips Memories of so many years All hanging on mutual scripts Floating on a sea of fears. She turned and looked in my eyes How can you criticize? 7170-6

A MAJESTIC POSE She was one in hundreds when she was born. In a world of slithering, awkward, creepy Brothers and sisters all destined to a life anonymous, Although all kings and queens in their way in their world. To passersby either unseen, or terrifying, They all lived lives of sudden attack and slack, longbodied rest. In the hot summer days finding water was always an issue Because water brought others and it brought them out in the open. And when eyes were on them, danger was everywhere. In the skies it lurked like lightning out of nowhere. This killed some. On the ground, the swift-footed mammals were death afoot. This killed some. An even in the water as their forked tongues licked the precious fluid There lurked sudden strikes that dragged them down. This killed some. Just moving around there was danger on the black, hot roadways. This killed some. Even resting in their hidden netherworld crevices there could be digging and scratching Until claws and teeth reached their soft scaly skin. This killed some. But the years went by and she grew and had her own hatchling neonates to add To the long process. And then one July day she curled up in a perfect coil And died from nothing obvious. In fact she seemed to be alive. I looked at her, tail tucked in, head resting on her circled body, neatly stowed Away. I poked her gently with my pen. Nothing. Again. Nothing. I looked Closely. Eyes open, tongue hiding, a majestic pose there in my parking space. I got the pen under her and lifted her up, balancing her long 18-inch body And placed her on the grass. When I came out the birds and bugs were on her And it was clear to me that nothing would be wasted. I am still thinking about her, her life, and her death. Soon, I will stop that And get on with the day. After all, It was just a snake. 7160-6

SHAKER LIKE A WEAPON You make everything harder And more complicated and always, Always you make things verge on argument About territory, dominance, A sense of judgments, double standards, Family ancestry, about Various forms of learning disabilities, Constant criticism, and who's better than who. You dredge up old contests about bicycles, Cars, houses, what happened when, Who was right who was wrong, you Relish those moments when you were Victorious over the alpha male, or when You were so mistreated and retreated Cut off all ties for almost a year. You bring these back as though they just happened, Those moments of my failures, my weaknesses, And you grab the shaker like a weapon And pour salt on those wounds and rubbing it in You laugh wickedly as though in ecstasy Beyond bounds and control. And then you walk away, Out of the room full of the righteousness That only a happily closed mind can conjour up. I am left alone standing there with nothing Left to say. Almost. "I was only asking if there were Any more paper towels, Honey." Bill Purdin: 6/6//10

TO REVEL IN THE LIGHT They have changed that's for sure. It all started with a kiss, actually. Lips so soft, transporting to another world Where everything was candy and the heat Oh, the heat. It warmed the worry It took away the fright, it cozied the night. It brought forth a deluge of things The best things, everything, it just kept On bringing them. As though everyday Things were love uninterrupted, a child So rich in experience, years upon years Of challenge of failure of rebirth of changing Of everything always changing changing. And now those kisses are more than ever, Although briefer, now in passing, Perhaps casual, some might say taken for granted. Kissing like our parents, they might say. But we can only hope our parents kissed with Feelings like these. Oh, we can still dig in there And kiss like lovers lost in ardour, steeped in lusty Provocations, as though depths to be plumbed Were crazy red with excitment. But now all of that Can be just brushed, lips to lips, within each other's Breath, touching lightly and still feeling it all. No one knows what a light kiss can be Unless the light is on them. And even then It takes time, oh time, To revel in the light. Bill Purdin: 5/11/10

You struggle, as though wrapped And being squeezed, life out, no hope Twisting to be free, nowhere to go Hopeless beyond saying it, lost in utterness Alone, in darkness, descending, so, so low. I know. Once so deep in me, I caved So cold in that dark place, that I came Close to the tip of things, nothing Beneath, nothing above, just me And the tip of the iceberg, the tunnel With no light. There on that balanceless point, I teetered Like a bottlecap spinning, eternal-less Empty of reason, discarded, to be forgotten Useless now, less than ever even imagined, Even dizzy-less, still spinning, knowing Not even obliviousness was given to me. Forced to witness my own torture Pain never became pleasure as they say Agony, full throated, was mine as long As I chose. No filter, no dampening It was pure, delivered with intent by An enemy all mine. All mine. I wish I could free you, but I know too much. There is only one way out and it's through. Takes your doing not a lover's touch. If you make it, I'll be waiting for you. Bill Purdin: 4/13/10

2009
[14]

STRANGE FLAVORS Freedom comes in strange flavors That hit the tongue like fire, Like ice, like a sweet candy, Like a retching piece of grizzle, Or even like a tasteless thing That passes without notice. Freedom always seems strange at first. What do I do now? It seems dark in here. Nothing is the same, all is misplaced. What's that? Where's that? Who are you? Who am I? It's disorienting. Like leaving home with no goodbye Nothing stays the same. The smallest things seem to satisfy. Everything needs a new name. Bill Purdin: 12/28/09

THOSE TEARS Dark times I was on attack. Made such mistakes. Wish I could go back To unsay and undo What I said and did. To resay and redo Quickly close the lid. I would cage that lion There is no doubt. Sheathe the claws Tear those memories out. I can't, though I would. It's done now for years. Doesn't matter what I could. There are those tears. Bill Purdin: 12/15/09

PAIN There is a pain that Statistics can't define, Can't be labeled As chronic or acute No treatment can erase. It throbs and spreads But never shows. It aches and deepens And never slows. The only one who knows Is the victim who suffers But we hide it Never confide it And on and on it goes. There is a pain so horrible That it numbs us And it dumbs us Until we actually Think it's normal. Just another day Alone, in disarray. No more questions now: Hope is the prey. Bill Purdin: 11109-5

THERE'S NO END The problem with goodness Is there's no end to it. When you are disjointed, Addicted, wasted and Killing yourself, it all Goes down and down: It all comes to an end. It's not pretty but It is dependable at least. Being good only lifts you up And up without end. World's come along for you. Sky's blue for you. Friend's call dispels loneliness. All of life is richer with The uncertainties of good. And there's just no end to it. Eternality vs. a known end. It's a really hard choice, friend. Bill Purdin: 1139-5

The problem with being there Is that you see things incontrovertible That make you shudder, make you stare. Your eyes don't lie, it's irrefutable. Is it better to just stay home To hide among the memories And soft things that settle back And put your feet up, thinking All thats behind me now. But All that's behind me now is still Ahead of me too. I run in circles. The past they say is prologue How true it is. So, so true That the past is still here Dragging along like a lazy dog Or tire chains I forgot to take off. I see dead people too. My mind Remembers some so vividly That when one comes along who Walks that way, or says a certain Word that way it fills in all the blanks And there they are. People long dead Talking to me, walking to me, Causing me to stop and let my Past walk past. Sometimes it is Actually the same person, not dead Of course, but one from long ago Who is still here saying the exact Same things, smiling the exact same Way, annoying, fumbling, and Even looking at me in the exact Same way. Or is that just me in The mirror? The mirror in me. Each day is a trail I have walked before I see the same forks coming and Take the same forks going. And Why not? Sometimes we grow tired Of battle, of new and better. The old and worse look good some days. Attractive even. But that old hermit With the miser's touch must go out. It all happens again. The problem with being there Is that you see things incontrovertible That make you shudder, make you stare. Your eyes don't lie, it's irrefutable. Bill Purdin: 10/29/09

LOSING IT Biting nails Talking excessively Not sleeping Can't get a break. Playiing favorites. Write it down. Pants too tight. Totally impatient. Staring stupidly. Fucking crying. Can't follow instructions. Fighting panic attacks. Silently freaking out. Scaring me angry. People finding me out. Privacy invaded. Trying not to be an asshole. Learning nothing. Thinking too much. Jealousy welling up. Wanting a little good luck But getting nothing Except a feeling Of deepening need To talk and Bite nails. Bill Purdin: 9-2-09

ANY SINS THAT WERE COMMITTED Edward Moore Kennedy 1932-2009 The hand of God, so called, Comes down on men without favor Like a guillotine dropping without Merciful gravity or a curtain coming down. The hand of God wipes It all away or wipes it all clean Again. Happiness: a memory; Great deeds: just a record somewhere; Neither for us or against us, this Hand comes down either with justice Or with love; or if you're lucky, both. Edward Moore Kennedy was a sinner And a liar, and a reckless fool, That's for sure. Edward Moore Kennedy Was a great man who saw the needs Of others and ran to meet them, He was a wise man who led a nation To be better, to be kinder and To be freer. That's for sure. He was a bad husband and a good one, He was a bad father and a good one. When all is said and done -- and Now it is -- he was just a man, A boy, the youngest in his family, Who lived and, now, has died. We grow no bigger in death Than we were in life, but It does seem that way sometimes. As our sins are forgotten As our bodies dispose of Life's burdens and struggles We seem, sometimes, to enlarge. In this case, presidents and all the Pantheon were there but were They thinking: "I wish it were me."? Do they envy the successful end Amid the gathering of great to Pay homage? No scandal marred that Day in Massachusetts even though A hurricane was bearing down. Did they think to themselves... "I should be so lucky!"? After all of the hoopla and uproar Of his life it must have been awfully Quiet in that linen-drapped coffin. After standing all his life in the harsh light Of politics and gossip, it must Have been awfully dark in in there. The camera strolled over faces like A landscape to assess. There were Bored eyes, crying eyes, eyes that Looked around from their corners As if concerned about where The camera was and where it Was going next. "Father, hear our prayers" Rang through the church with a Recital of liberal doctrine, as If it were all part of the liturgy. Then came the Eucharist. It celebrates the ascension into heaven But, really, who knows? Is Ted, just dead and gone, or is It something more? And if Something more ... what? That is The question. True? Death always seems so religious And yet life seldom feels That way. Just as the curtain Is coming down we all genuflect In the isle and take our seat Piously hoping that it will do: After all that we have done What else can we do? All the cards have been played. All the dies have been cast. Everything is through. The gathered sadness is a swirling mix Of so many reasons, it's a concoction Beyond comprehension. Each attendee's thoughts are hidden Behind a bereaver's mask. Some sorrow is self-referential, Some is self-torture, some Is thoughtful and some full of regret, Some is denying and busy rewriting History frenetically beneath those Knitted brows. Some is unselfish, Sad for the loss of others, and Some is confused and worried that No deep feelings have emerged. Some is empty and dissolute: Hope the mask is secure and Complete. Hiding in bereavement Many sins stay covered. It's Safe in a sea of tears to Just tread water there. No one Knows and you look just like every one Else. You hear the music and See the priests, but like a rock in A stream it all goes past, and you, Unaffected, unreachable, beyond All hope. So, the least of the Mourners and Ted had something In common that day, The passion The purpose all swept past Them both, eddying motionless Amid the flow of time. Now immovable, still. Ted's son, it must be said, Really, really loved his dad. His speech was the favorite By far: better than YoYo Or Placido Domingo, or the Great mezzo-soprano Susan Graham. Better than the brilliant organist, And better than anything Anyone else could have said. He used the one instrument That only plays the truth and The only one that cannot ring False. The human heart. Ted said that there was no Security in hiding and did What he could to continue The dream and honor His brothers. Right down to Today. President Obama's Speech was wonderful, but the Hug he gave Ted, Jr. said Far, far more. As darkness fell in Arlington, The eternal flame seemed To flicker a little As the casket went down. The cemetery pulled The black night over itself Like a cold, cold blanket. The little flame Was burning bravely As the cameras and And the long sleek cars Departed so slowly. In the rear view mirror: There it was on the hill Beside three graves Now. Bill Purdin: 8-29-2009

BIRTHDAY SONG FOR YOU Happy birthday to you Happy birthday to you Happy birthday dear dear one Happy birthday to everyone. May your true wish come true May all good come to you May you drink from the well of love And act on the good you think of. May you give love to everyone Forgive all that's been done. Expect nothing but a chance to give Like it's your last day to live. Happy birthday to you Happy birthday to you Happy birthday dear dear one Happy birthday to you. July 31, 1947: Bill Purdin

EVERY DAY PRODUCES A CHAMPION Chasing a dream, makes us closer The odds-on favorite often falls short Convince yourself that you are going to do it Because you know you; you've got the game The crowd loves a fighting loser, underdog Who keeps chasing the lengthening dream, Who overcomes the doubts to win anyway It's just about honing your abilties and using What you've got. The real battle of course Is within, way within, deep within where You really live. That place where no one goes Except you. Just you. You know where it is But no one else. We all have one. It's sad In a way because it is there. It's great in a way Because it is there. A human dichotomy. But working out of that tumor, or control center, We take the day for what it is, How well we do in the struggle from Where no one sees to where we are out in the open Is the everyday production of champions. It's the middle distance of life Where what we are and what we do Struggle to defeat us and to help us. The battle of knowing and doing Feeling and acting Safety and freedom Fearing and loving. At some point you will give up And let life take you like a lover Open to whatever is coming, Not caring about consequences Embracing life at its essence. Suddenly you are your own True champion. You are your own Best friend. That one true Friend. Bill Purdin: July 19, 2009

UNTIL I DROP There is nothing like not doing. Not doing what hurts. Not doing what tortures. Not doing the one thing you most want to not do. Not doing the angst thing. Not doing the waste time thing. Not doing the thoughts that lead to the doorway Where you want to not knock, Not enter, not even side glance at it As you pass happily by. Today's goal: not doing until I drop. Bill Purdin: July 13, 2009

There are a million ways to screw up your life And I've enjoyed them all. But, thank God, for my feeble faith Which saved the final fall. -- Bill Purdin, 6/10/9

SOME OTHER NOUN Standing in the waiting line, it occurs That the shadow cast comes up short. Others seem so beautiful, so happy So successful, so unthreatened in their Spaces in the line. They seem all set. And yet, the scream inside echoes Like a cash register taking in the money Time after time, the clock's hands can't keep up With my retreat. The paid piper Is never, ever paid in full. Walking out with bags weighed down With preconceptions long spent I think of you gone, some other noun; Wish there was time to repent. 3/18/09: Bill Purdin

LOVE WILL HAVE ITS DAY The elements of desire are legion Too many to embrace even infinity's catalog. They leap out like perversion They hide away like sweet memories With some passion and some pain With attraction and revulsion All beloved in some way. All defy clarity's definition. The merely physical, in time, takes a back seat. The score becomes a memory Where the textures, the smells, The sounds -- oh the sounds, so soft And whispering, what did they say? -- Even lovemaking was mere apophasis To distract from the frontal assault of course. We wanted to be friends true. We all did. Making love? Well, that was just amative handshaking. We did it with enthusiasm but it was a potion To help us forget the pain and sorrow Of a buyer's market where what we wanted to sell Was often more than the buyer wanted to buy. Oh, perfidious imposters, how beautiful you were! But lovelife, ah, that was a coin hard to cash. The word, beloved, haunted all of us as we groped Through our innocent laughter and hoped, Learning that hate comes with love sometimes And then finally, finally, That love comes in hate as well. That was a lesson of love, believe me. Polish the stone, he said, and you may find a gem. In love, emotions rule. It's the only language scribbled In love's lucubration. Screaming helps, but does not impel. So, now, decades are the measure, not just days. In that long endlessly receding mirror images abound. So many to choose from. There emerges a mosaic, Many times compounded: A sense of what is, what will be, And, oh yes, what will never be. Love will have its day. Love will have its say. Bill Purdin: 2/14/09

---

2008
|42|

WEAK It's like a day only longer. It starts with birth but Goes on forever. You can't buy your way out. It takes giving like nothing else. It takes taking to a whole new height. It takes control where there isn't any. It takes surrender so deep That you may never find your way out. Life is great with it or without it. But it defines life like nothing else. You think you're crazy. You think you're so smart. And it all comes down to the next second Over and over and over and.... Bill Purdin: 12/13/08

IN THE BLOWS There are so many bad things Pummeled at us every day No wonder right and wrong Are difficult to discern in the blows. Artificial foods that are indigestible. Fast, powerful cars that wreck the world And kill 45,000 Americans annually. Drugs for everything: weight loss, Erections, bone growth, pain of all kinds. TV Shows that mirror a world That no one really lives in. The news is old before we hear it. All the big deals that promise But don't deliver. This is what we hype As though it is what we all want. I almost never see anything advertised That I really want. Mostly they are selling Things that, if you buy them, you are worse off. It's just bad things looking good. It's just good things looking bad. And people looking the other way. Bill Purdin: 12/12/08

STRUGGLE UNIVERSAL Getting ready for better things to come Is the heart and soul of life. The cleansing of things From daily clothes to the planet itself, Is part of us like breathing in and out. To know how to separate The horrible from the beautiful, The foolish from the wise, The petty from the forgiving Is life's struggle universal. The cleansing of the corruption In our intentions, our motives; Clearing antonymistic defilements That turn our good into our bad Our wholesome into our whoresome Sanctifies life. Not success but effort toward success Is the only security we have. As long as we try to be It will always be possible to be. This guards the lover, the poet, The dreamer, the friend. It makes a day something To celebrate not vacate. This makes a life worth living: Friendship worth giving. Bill Purdin: 11/20/08

DAILY The trouble with daily living Is not the daily; It's the living. Living with other people, Living with confusion When two people are together, or When working together, or Even shopping together. The communication protocols Are so uncertain -- There are so many -- That even speaking is dangerous And duplicitous, When the opposite is intended. The struggle to be heard is overwhelmed By definitional difficulties so hidden And lurking that, even among friends, Misunderstandings Are far more prevalent Than agreements ever were. Agreement is now acquiesence Into the world of "whatever;" So far from the world We really want to live in Daily. What's needed is more compassion. And commitment, that's needed too. What's needed is more understanding: All that matters is the we, not the you. Bill Purdin: 11/19/08

BETWEEN HERE AND THERE I was standing there in the line Looking at my fellow voters And I saw them with the face Or expression of doubt Of being unplaced in time. As though they knew they were Standing there waiting to cast A meaningless vote In sea of meaningless votes That at the very best Would all add up to Something less Than meaningless. They were still dead-set Determined, solid and implaccable In their determination to do it. The line was the longest line I've ever seen for voting And getting longer all the time. It reminded me of a line I was in at an airport once Where I was running to catch the end But the end of the line Was moving faster than I could run. I had a sense that if they had To stand there for a week, They would stand there for a week. I had a feeling that if a hurricane came by They would not be moved. Both sides of the eletion Were standing there Side by side. They were all there: The people who were for my candidate The people who were against my candidate. When something funny happened Everyone laughed. It was fun to be in that line; That meaningless line going nowhere. We were all perfectly happy there. Contented really. Lost in that middle distance Between here and there. In a place where time has been Set aside for some purpose, And there was no limit or requirements, Around this time. We just stood there Watching the clock, watching each other Waiting. Someone mentioned The sun coming up that morning, How it looked like a giant "O" Rising in the sky. Some people Found that funny. Some did not. This time in line reminded me Of waiting for an airplane Or a night watch on an ocean racer: It was just time that was there In the now. Not in the tomorrow Or in the yesterday, It was just all of us standing there Wait for the polls to open. Waiting to vote. Finally. Now. Bill Purdin: 11/4/08 7:57 a.m.

MY ULYSSES IN MORE WAYS THAT ONE Writing poems is not a daily website function. It requires a whole lot more than just a rising sun. My guitar must be tuned, my mind must be tuned; My life must be in balance somehow, and there's no way To know exactly what that is ... a feeling. I can't be too tired or too awake. I can't be too busy or too not busy. It has to be just right in a crazy Seeking the middle sort of way. If my mind is too steady, nothing happens. If my mind is too irratic, nothing happens. If I force it, it won't be forced. If I wait, it waits me out. If I just start writing sometimes that's okay, But sometimes there is a lot of wadded paper flying around. I used to hand write every poem and saved them all in books. Now I type them on a computer and then write them out, Just to see how they look in ink. I have always played every poem on my guitar, And I have always sung them all. If you know them, You will know that some were not suited to singing, But still I sing them all. There are some that die right there. If I kill too many, I stop for a while. If I write too many I stop for a while. I think I have written over 10,000 poems now. My first poem was in 1966, the same year I bought my first guitar. I still have them right here: The poem and the guitar. I stare at that "Coming soon..." promise on my site Sometimes for days, then weeks, then months, But never years. It stares back at me like a taunt. But it is always been a kept promise. I always write another one. I always write another one. My books are like one long poem: My Ulysses. Sometimes it seems to be chasing me. Sometimes it seems to be leading me. Sometimes it's sitting here beside me Like a friend enjoying the moment. It's a shadow and a foreshadow. It's left and right, up and down. I've been writing it so long I'm not sure what it is anymore. But I know it is a true Statement of something, Perhaps something important, Perhaps not. But, without it, I would be lost. In more ways than one. -- Bill Purdin: 10/22/08

AS THOUGH The fear we feel Just life's weary doubt The spinning wheel Day in and day out. You react in anger, Sometimes tears, Were you really entitled To all these years? Oh, these hours of love. Oh, these hours of peace. Promises more and more Everything's increase. When did you really earn Those eyes that shared Deeply into yours You could taste the yearn? When did you actually deserve Those moments of bliss? Those loving arms? That deep, deep kiss? You didn't ask why. You didn't try to earn it. You didn't really deserve it; And neither did I. We sang those crazy times Like a heavenly choir: We heard sacred chimes, Felt forbidden fire. We acted as though -- Who could blame us -- As though love was always And nothing could tame us. That we were right Years remove all doubt We were oh, oh so right. Day in and day out. Bill Purdin, 10/10/08

SOMETIMES I'M JUST WATCHING Sometimes I begin it Sometimes I'm deep within it Sometimes all I do is spin it But sometimes (sometimes) I can win it. Grab the controls and twist the scene From something nice and now obscene. Bring new players on the stage Shove new layers 'neath the page. See the revolutions fade, the people run See the evolutions gain, it's almost done. Wonder what when it all up-ends See how deep deep it all descends. Sometimes I begin it Sometimes I'm deep within it Sometimes all I do is spin it But sometimes (sometimes) I can win it. Sometimes, I'm just watching Sometimes I'm just wondering. Mystified at the plundering. Sometimes, I'm just watching. Sometimes I begin it Sometimes I'm deep within it Sometimes all I do is spin it But sometimes (sometimes) I can win it. Bill Purdin: 9/13/08

STANDING ON THE SUN It's all too much, really, what goes on. It's all too much really, to get it all. It comes at you like light speed One thing after another. Sometimes, I'm deep in it Something, I can win it Sometimes, all I do is spin it Sometimes, I'm just watching ... They grab the controls and twist the scene From something nice and then obscene. They bring new players on the stage They shove new layers beneath the page. I see the revolutions fade, the people run I see the evolutions gain, it's almost done. I wonder when it all up-ends Can we live standing on the sun? Sometimes, I'm deep in it Something, I can win it Sometimes, all I do is spin it Sometimes, I'm just watching. Bill Purdin: 9/13/08

TIGERS LAY DOWN When I threatened retribution and revenge I didn't really mean it, shouldn't have said it. But I wanted you to know how deeply I love you, How much I hate it when someone hurts you. I wanted you to know that your pain is mine. I wanted you to know that you are not alone, Not ever alone, not ever. You may feel that you are, You may feel an unspeakable sense of threat or Something like worry times dread times fear And think that no one knows that feeling, But I do. When all of this happened I was like A drowning man, surging to the breathing air, but Held below the surface, unable to rise. I watched As the arrows of envy pierced you, and the ropes Of dispair snared you. I saw you twist and writhe. So, forgive me for wishing death and destruction on Your enemies, for wanting their error to follow them To the gates of hell, that their souls would cease And then, by God, they would know what they have done. Forgive me. I knew what I was doing, and that's even worse. But, it passed without moment. It faded without effect. Back to normal, I see beauty. I see wonder. I see hope. And realize the deep of love: That it can be so soothing and fire such venom. And that in the morning when the world is born anew It can bring back that reality of sureness and yes faith. A quiet grows within as the tigers lay down. Bill Purdin: 8/27/08

Happiness is a time when the world agrees And countervailing arguments hold no sway. Happiness is a voiced love that clearly sees A warm embrace, a sunny kiss, a whole new day. Bill Purdin: 7318

WRONG AND WEAK We scare easily. Too easily. When right is so powerful And always wins in the end. The trials come long Like cars on a busy road. You’re not crazy. The weird thing going on Is that so many people Believe in bullying and emotional Distortion and manipulation When they would never Want it to happen to them. Suddenly we run the other Direction, metaphorically speaking. We turn and run when We should stand and resist. They should turn and desist. It’s the way things get better, But what chance does the world Have to change if every one Scares easily and runs Toward fear as if it were Love and trusts love As if it were wrong and weak? Metaphorically speaking. 7258

YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL (2) What others may not see in their rush I see every day, I see every time, you walk by. The scars, the bruises, the broken dreams Only refining, defining moments That deepened and deepen you Like a writer enriching a character Or a painter mixing new colors Or a conductor digging out a More vibrant performance from one who Might be holding back. It's like an athlete calling for more effort, Or a teacher drawing out a student's best, Or a friend standing by no matter what. I see all of those in just you looking at a menu Wondering what to order. Your beauty is so astounding, So amazing, so astonishing It's brightness takes concentration To see clearly, not through smoke and mirrors, But through a clarity with such a sharp focus That some are confused and some are dazed Seeing something like that. The years have given me A proficiency, In seeing your beauty. And I would share it with others If you would let me. If you would believe me. Bill Purdin: 7168

She Said, "It's My Life." Striving to be always good is futility. It is impossible for a human being to achieve. At every turn we are tempted and succomb. It happens over and and over and over. The dream of perfection is a false hope. It deludes us into thinking that we will grow. But then when it comes we always go down. It's the way we are, unsettled, never sure, so weak. We kid ourselves with religions and political reform. But in the final moments we always screw it up. There are no reasons other than the selfish ones. And, if you doubt, just look in the mirror. It's the darkness that always wins. It's the curse of Adam and Eve. Just when you think a bright day comes, You stand there watching it leave. Bill Purdin: 758

SWILLING SOFTENERS It's tough to be alone: A terrible self-deception. If running from one thing to another Changes anything, let me know. Stick with one thing, Until you exhaust it, Drain it, Beat it to the ground, Take it apart to its basic elements Put it back together twice: First, the way you think it should be Second, as it was before you wrecked it. (And that might not be enough.) Always be ready for the harsh That it was perfect before you. Before you saw its flaws, Before you saw the fix, Before you strolled in and took charge, Before you screwed it all up. Remember you. Remember how you are: Looking at the world through your eyes You see the world through your despise Your experiences, your disguise, Your hiding-in-the-corner truths That may have stopped the real truths From ever getting past your filters, Your devices, Your walls that look like doors Your emptiness that looks like windows. As you sit there alone, diffusing the world Swilling in your softeners, Remember that putting it back together Is harder and harder the longer you wait. And you will have to do it at least twice. It's tough to be alone When you are not And never were. It's tough to be alone. Bill Purdin: 6288

ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE You were one of those people. Those people, so many of them, Who I have never really understood In their dark corners watching Who said things but behind the words Were those small ripples that linger For years and years and years and years Vibrating around some hidden definition That my dictionary could not confine. You were one of those people I always knew where you were, kept track, If you were home or not, when You were coming home, or not, And I always wondered why about you Why did you like that or this, Why did you do something or not Why did you say want to come along with me? Or why you said nothing at all. You were one of those people Who haunt my moments of doubt Who make me always worry that I missed Something important, who always make A question of every motive, every thought And everything I've done on the Dark nights when the sheets are tangled And I drift in and out of twisting fettered Thoughts as though you are still nearby. Maybe it was because you are so shallow So without real reason or true rhyme So vapid and tepid that the pulse missing now Was missing then too. Maybe it's because You were too deep for me, too rich in reason And in those textures of life and rhythm That I missed it all. I missed the affection I missed the devotion, I missed it all. You were one of those people. Bill Purdin: 6158 To my dad on Father's Day

NEVER CHANGES She was nineteen and I was twenty I had orders to Vietnam She was planning a life. No future she said to me. The years have gone by that's for sure. Life has been good to me. I remember how it made me cry. How so many years later, Still I think of her, so young and pure. In my pantheon her place Is untouchable, unchangable and perhaps Untrue. Who knows these things anyway? Of all the events that have ploughed Through my time are all there for sure; Each one is right where I put it. Hers is no greater or lesser ... except That I remember it so vividly Always in the exact same way. It never changes. Never anything new, anything different. Always the same: she's unique that way. Old memories are projects to fix, sanding them And shaping them into something Just a little bit better. I fuss with everything until I'm happy. Reality's not real. I've added some stones around one of my gardens. Every day I push them and worry them around, Adjusting unseen imperfections. To anyone else they are fine. To me they are a mess. I do that in everything. Everything gets adjusted. Over and over and over. Except for her. She was nineteen and I was twenty. I had orders to Vietnam She was planning a life. No future she said to me. Bill Purdin: 668

MEMORIAL DAY AGAIN War and war's remembrance: A dedication of those who know not What war really is. Marching up and down America's streets And streets everywhere to patriotic music Immortalizing how we killed each other When all we wanted to do was just go home Seems obviously improper to some who do. Innocent people watch as the parade goes by But bloody hands are everywhere under the sky. Those who've never done it go so unnoted. Better that there be a Kindness Day for them, But who would stick out their chest and march for that? Who would get up on a holiday and beat that drum? Who would grab a lawn chair at 8:00 a.m. And head down to Main Street to be sure To have a great spot as that parade goes by? Oh look, here comes little Johnny, he's nice to his sister. Here comes Mr. and Mrs. Arno who were married for 60 Years and lived lives of faith and forgiveness. Here comes that grocery clerk at the supermarket Who always smiled. And ... look, look! There's the old teacher everyone loved. But today, all over, the other drum beats For medals of war on soldiers sent to fight Who wanted to just go home. Those dead lie still and yonder; That Day, again, to ponder. Bill Purdin: 5/26/08

Lonely and faced with a tough, tough day The human race walks out the door. From China to Chelsea, From Daytona to Hobart Island We walk together in our strange suffering. The horn of plenty blows empty. The promise of love is broken. "Why me?" is a universal prayer. And head-down we droop in dispair. Bridges collapse and the whole world shakes In a Seismic reading off the scale. Politicians tireless and profits soaring, No one hears the mouse's roaring. We rush into gridlocked traffic, We hurry to meetings that never end. We stir and stir but nothing mixes We try and try but nothing fixes. I met a little boy hiding under a bush He was staying out of the parent's eye. He said to me to go away, But he meant he wanted me to stay. He cried as he tried to smile And he was mad as hell, he laughed as well. I took his hand and we walked back. He said later he wanted to return to the bush. It is trust we want, but can't imagine a way. We live in a world-wide thesaurus Of words that change from one thing to another So we no longer know what to say. The true words are forgotten in a buzz blitz Of color and commercials and sexy glitz. Lonely and faced with a tough, tough day The human race walks in the door. Exhausted, and drained, we throw ourselves On the futile couch and exhale a sigh Like a gut punch would require. Or a nail driven into a tire. Bill Purdin: 5/22/08

THOSE POEMS Difference from a live one to a dead one Is easy to see in poetry Because it just happened. Because it just happened. Right in front of you. I saw poems die all the time once. They were rhyming along Swaggering with dusty rhythm And then they stopped moving. And then they stopped moving. And then they stopped, moving. A few, even as they were still and unrestless, Torn from a book and tossed to the ground, Dead for sure, still moved, still moved. I remember every one, those poems. They were structured like Housman, Or free like Sandberg. Or long like Vachel Lindsay. They were cryptic like Dickinson, or too brief Like Yeats. They still move. They still move. They, still, move. But then, there were those other poems, too The ones the winds blew away. Many more of them. They were well written but unremembered. I watched them drifting away, carried off. What's the difference: the living and the dead? When a poem dies, it dies right in front of you. When a poem lives, it lives because of you. They were all written in different hands They are all there for us to see, They all had their wonder plans Some are, some will never be. Seems a shame all those dead poems. Seems a shame all those dead poems. But for the living, would've all been a waste, It's something that must be faced. -- Bill Purdin, 5/6/08

A ZUEGMA MYSTERY Can't spend a life not saying things Can't spend a life just wanting Can't spend a life just screaming Can't spend a life just run run running. Part of me wants to please everyone Part of me wants to tear it all up Part of me drifts into sad sad things Part of me just sings sings sings. People say I remember all wrong (I do get paid to make stuff up) Memory's just a lonely love song Life's an unfilled overflowing cup. The things I like are not for everyone (That's that way it should be) When I like something or someone It's a deep diving zeugma mystery. The rythme of the strings is air I breathe The frets of are worlds to play on My sword goes back into the sheathe Can't remember why it was drawn. Bill Purdin: 4/28/08

THE TRUE SONG COMES People love a love song and they always have. Imagine a young woman, sifting through Her memories of failed love and saddness Who meets a man who seems to be perfect But she knows he's not. She wants him to be And marries him and lives with him For years and years, always hoping, but never Really happy because reality is never What we want it to be. In her last days she Knows that she has lived longer with this man Than her parents, than her daughters, than any friend. He has been her companion of a lifetime. Did she ever really love him? Was he just a category filled in the album of life? She sees him there across the room and wonders Do I really know him? Does he really know me? Even after all the years there is no clarity. Even as she closes her eyes, one last time, She does not know. Her last vision is his face, eyes awash with tears. His hand on hers holding tight as she goes. Her last thought: who am I? All the years simmer down to questions. All the moments leave us uncertain. Never comes that moment of revelation, Except in loving with no conditions. Once we love like that, answers are not needed. It's then that the true song comes. Bill Purdin: 4/22/08

SQUINTING INTO THE SUNSET. Watching the long nail bite Into the wood, and watching The wood accept it so painfully, Then sanding the wound, smoothing The puncture crater and filling it Then sanding again, and softly stroking The satin paint over it as if nothing happened. Now joined, the two pieces have new meaning. They didn't ask for it, but there it is. A shelf four and a half feet off the floor. From the scrap heap to a purpose. But it began with that piecing, that pain That attack on things as they were, An assault of the status quo. If I were that piece of wood I would have Hidden further down in the heap, she said. I would have tried to be useless appearing. In the pile of wood scrap, she said, I would Not have stood out. It would have been Hard to find me. I would have seen to that. She smiled. Her lips seemed soft and her Face radiant. What a shame that would be, I thought. Down there in the depths of Useless forgotten scraps that smile, That determination. That humor and all those Thoughts of how things are and should be. We were looking at all the scrap wood Still in the pile. They look happy she said. I took her hand, turned off the light and We walked outside. We were both squinting Into the sunset when she said, Let's stay home tonight. Bill Purdin: 4/11/08

GO IN PEACE There is a thought that we all have sometimes: Go your way in peace. Even after an all-out argument you might have that thought As your opponent walks away. It's part of human nature, to see something Valuable in allowing all to continue. The difference between the dark revenge And the willingness to forgive. I could be wrong is a thought well placed. He could be right it's possible, should be faced. When we cut the cord, it's an ending. Sure there are more to come, beginnings. But still that bridge is burned, rebuilding is hard. When we see ourselves in others we see. When we see enemies in others, our eyes our closed. The turned cheek still burns, I know. But our hands are peaceful, our minds hopeful When we do not eye for eye. Go in peace. A wonderful parting. Go in peace. We will meet again. We can all bring hell to bear, it's sure in us. But to wish well, well that's adventurous. Bill Purdin: 438-5

PUSHING Erasing the past. It's just a button you push. Then it's gone. All those visuals, those memories Slowly disappate, but it's a big file. There are a lot of interlinks. You think it's all gone But then, there you are at a stop light thinking This is taking too long. One them reappears. She was walking in the crosswalk, carry a Macy's bag; Or he was climbing out of a cab, carrying my old briefcase; Or it was a dog barking somewhere; or A television show that I watched once, now on rerun; Or there was this crack in the sidewalk that reminded me Of Minnesota, or Kansas or maybe a small village In the jungle where things were flying around; But it was really just this shopping bag blowing On the street, empty like a drunken balloon. And then I was moving along and the breeze through The window reminded me of my Dad smoking Luckies In the car. Then I came to a stop sign that seemed Like one in Indiana I saw every day. It was just a stop sign Then but now I remember how I would just stay there Looking at this cornfield growing from little seedlings To tall stalks and then to harvest plunder everything Shredded and strewn like a battlefield after. But we do push the button. It takes months and months Of planning and thinking and rethinking. Actually, To erase the past I looked as far into the future as possible For me to see what I could see there. I know the little Things will grow and then they will be used up and then Well... then what? That was as far as I could see. Some memories have gone now, pushed out. But some fight their way back in, pushing in. Memories swirl like they are blown on a wind That is going somewhere but the only way to find Out where is to let it blow and just go Along. You can't really wipe them off, or Efface them in any true way. Some things are there forever. Dead people walk in our thoughts; mistakes take Their toll over and over. Weaknesses reemerge Jack-in-the-box-like. Good deeds done drift away As they should. We wander in a hinterland of doubt And hope. The past and the future are like a slow fog We are walking through. It's always before us. It's always behind us. We can see around us but not With clarity or definition. It takes a lot of faith To be alive. Imagine the things we do foggy-bound. So many things that we forget some of them. So many things that we can never do them all. The past walks with us, the future holds our hand. We are in the moment no matter how hard we fight it, No matter how many buttons we push. There's no erasing. There's no procrastinating. It's all happening: the central revelation. The stop signs are not really stop signs. Go. Bill Purdin: 418-5

Watching things change is fun When it's other people's things. When it's you, it's like a spray gun Over all your accountings. It's always the things not showing: What's really going on in your life. It takes assumptions to real knowing: When it's you, you can feel the knife. But watching others cope with change We encourage them to accept what's due. It may be something rich or strange: We tell them ... "It's up to you." Bill Purdin: 3318-5

He can look at a room and calculate the framing In his head down to a sixteenth of an inch. He can look at a house and rightly judge It's weight and force integrity. Always on the money. He drives a broken down Chevy truck 100 miles a day. He says it's the most dependable vehicle ever. He has a story for every topic and will talk and talk. He charges a lot of money, but gives more than he takes. He always returns his calls, volunteers to do pickups, And never complains about hard work no matter How far off-plan things go. He once worked for four hours To bore a hole through the sill of this house and Talks about it as if it were the best day ever. He charged me for one hour. He doesn't really have any money. He doesn't really have any future. He does, however, have today in the fullest measure. It's his heaven. It's his hell. It's his dream. His wishing well. He exists in a moment, a second-by-second world With nothing behind or in front, With no one better or worse, Where ability matters and kindness rules. And then he's gone. An innocent in a world Of hammers and saws. Bill Purdin: 3/24/08

RIDE, RIDE RIDE It's an entertaining place, this world. You can really do anything you want. You can really do anything you want. There are no limits, just look around. People do the craziest, funniest, weirdest and meanist things You could ever think of . We couldn't make it up. The billions all thinking about doing something More than a single mind can grasp. The soldiers, the whores, the flyers and the dreamers The schemers and then there's you. There in your life thinking, thinking, thinking. Our planet lights the dark black space We sail through. All the minds thinking Cast a light to the end of time for you. It's an entertaining place, this world. You can really do anything you want. You can really do anything you want. To waste a life in dread and doubt To spend day after day waiting to find out Is the curse of all who huddle and hide Jump on, grab a hold, and ride, ride, ride. Bill Purdin, 3/16/08

A SLOW MOVING CURTAIN Remember those days when you played in the sand? Or when you ran to the dinner table, hungry? Remember those dreams you had of a world of wonder? What happened? Did the politicians wear us down? Did the corporations turn us into consumers? Or was it just the millstone of life grinding away? Yesterday I was staring into the eyes of a newborn girl, Just a week or two old. She was smiling in her sleep. When her eyes opened they didn't focus, just let in the light, And then she sort of squirmed her arms and turned her head And fell asleep again. She was laying on a giant, for her, Pillow made for babies to sleep on. A successful design. When her young mother carried her around she watched Closely as her world went by at what must seem like The speed of light to her. Just out of the womb Where movement was only measured in inches, Where everything was pretty quiet and cozy dark. Over her mother's shoulder I saw her looking around. The world is suddenly huge and all she sees it Is one room at a time, if that. Research says that newborns Are "disconnected" at first. They see their arms and hands But don't get it that those appendages are appended to them. They do know voices and when I spoke she looked right at me. An invader? Danger? No, it was curiosity in pure form. Her eyes looked at me with interest, scanning for information. I'm still thinking about that several days later. It's been a long, long time Since anyone has looked at me like that. She was just looking. Filling some small part of her mind with information, Whatever it was to her. It made me laugh with some indescribable Happiness. She filed that away as well. Those dark baby eyes So intense and yet so open and unjudging. I was still looking Into them when they closed very slowly. I had the sense that they Were looking and looking as this slow moving curtain came down Over her. And then she was asleep again. I wanted to wait right there until she woke up, but I had things to do and places to go. Bill Purdin, 3/508

WAY, WAY BEHIND It started out pretty bad. I forgot everything and had to go back. Half an hour behind schedule And it was only 6:30 a.m. Then it was really hard. Harder than I thought It would be. But I did it. Then I planned to spend some time writing But the phone wouldn't stop ringing. Now it's nearing half day, and I am still Way, way behind. Like a runner Who won't give up, I'm still pounding away Looking ahead and hoping. Always hoping. Sometimes I think that not giving up Is what life is all about. It has nothing to do with achievement. It has absolutely nothing to do with winning. And even less with losing. It is just a long lesson in perseverence. It is just a long, long lesson in overcoming. It is just a long, long, long lesson in leaving yourself Way, way behind, way off schedule, forgetting everything Except that no matter what ... On you go. Bill Purdin, 3/4/08

There is nothing better than Doing something you didn't really want to do And finding out how much you love it. The dragging effort to get going, The constant turning back thoughts That I can't even start constriction And the this is horrible, I'm going to stop compulsions. Then there's the I did it feeling That lasts all day And the I remember doing it And beyond. Bill Purdin, 3/3/08

INSIDE OUT AND OUTSIDE IN Three inches of soft snow fell last night. So soft it brushed away like a better thought Brushing past a thought of dread or worry. I saw two pairs of footprints: My wife's to the end of the driveway and back. She was getting the newspaper. It was Still dark and the world was quiet, peaceful. Her steps at the end were bigger as though she had paused There, warm slippers melting the snow In the midst of her errand, to sense A world so quiet and fluffy, she might Have looked around with no one awake And thought to herself, "Isn't this beautiful? It's like a miracle." I hope so. The other footprints were really paw prints. A small animal had come from behind the garage, Across the driveway and towrds the back yard. Then the prints had dissappeared under the porch, Where there's no snow but there is a vent of warm air. No way to track what happened but I Imagined the little critter stopped under the vent And felt the warm air brush over its fur. Perhaps it was thinking. "Isn't this just great. It's like a miracle." I hope so. Inside out and outside in: Something miraculous Always around you. Bill Purdin, 2/28/08

---

Front Page (4) McCain says his campaign rests on success in Iraq. Hillary Clinton down and really out, goes on vicious attack. Quietly pressing on with hopes for the future: that's Barack. Ford is pushing its workers to a buy-out. American business is receding, there's not much doubt. North Korea is hosting the New York Philharmonic And politicos stare and try not to be psychoanalytic. Bush always says one thing and does another. Doesn't seem to know the difference 'tween one and 'tother. He dances in Africa and preens in D.C. Doesn't seem to care for Democacy or you and me. The Dems are debating tonight on CNN It's depicted poll-wise: older white women vs. men. My, how the times they are a-changin', Everything is shifting and we are all rearrangin'. Let's hope when the dust settles there comes clarity, Peace and harmony in our time? Or more and more polarity? It's only Tuesday, watch our Video of the Day. Bill Purdin, 2/26/08 Front Page (3) Hillary's gone ballistic over Obama. Witch emerges over All-American Mama. She says he's as bad as Karl Rove ever was But the Obamanics are now hyper-activated, abuzz. The Oscars stolled down the red carpet The writers came back, studios paid the debt. Big Brother 9 went on its trashy way Ralph Nader enter the election yesterday. 'Bout as exciting as Raul's "election" in Havana (Or slipping on a banana). Huckabee was funny on SNL Tiger won again, his sixth straight trip to the well. A bomb blew up a bunch a Shiites in Baghdad, And nothing of Hillary "hits" could ever be that bad. Bill Purdin, 2/25/08 Front Page (2) Homeowners wallow in debt We shot down the satellite, and yet.... Obama takes it all and is still standing, Clinton's campaign's spending, she's demanding That we all see he's just a boy, Not made of the metal: the BillHill alloy. Democrats bicker, no resonating rhymes And McCain blames it all on The New York Times. Pakistan may stop our deadly, driverless drones, But Washington still can't hear the groans Of Darfur, Congo, New Orleans Over Haliburton, Exxon and designer jeans. Serbia burned out our embassy And America goes on free and easy. Bill Purdin, 2/22/08 Front Page (1) Obama's got 22 wins. Hillary's on the ropes. He talks about the people rising for change, She's counting on the super delegate dopes. He says "We can do it" change America and the world. She says "Day One, Day One" but that flag's long unfurled. He says, "Houston, we have liftoff." She says, "Houston. That'll be his cut-off." He dreams of a better world where people talk. She says, "It's a fairytale." Jack on the beanstalk. Well, the people will decide and it won't be close. She's lost her Mojo, plus all those caballeros. He's got Big Mo, big time. Tally-ho. She's making her last stand. Alamo. Bill Purdin, 2/20/08

---

HALF If you take half of what you want You will still have at least Twice of what you need. If you say half of what you think You will still say at least Twice as much as you should have. If you give twice as much as you want to You will still have only Given half of what you could have. When you imagine your capacity for change You will still have only imagined Half of what is possible. And when I wrote this poem I knew That I was still only writing Half of the truth. Bill Purdin: 2/6/08

In a cloud of dust And a hearty "Hi Ho" Sometimes our dreams end. Love's not love Without an "although" I love you most as a friend. Life has a promise In the ebb and flow Of days' and nights' pretend. -- Bill Purdin: 1/30/08

The Flag It flew behind me like a cape. It was red white and beautiful. It was a life dream coming true. When I crashed and burned I thought of you. -- Bill Purdin: 1/28/08

THEY ARE OURS It's a busy, busy world. It's a rude, rude world. It's a "Hi," "Bye" world. The sirens screech bad news in the night, We seem to lose wrong and right; Everywhere you turn you hear, "My bad." And the children seem to be sort of CSI sad. They are watching our every move. They are listening to our every word. They worry we are their future. We hope they are ours. When we cross reference our information It's a pretty good start; takes a stout heart. We push and stress like constipation, We tangle and rangle and pull ourselves apart. It's a world of games and shames. It's a five star, way-too-far world. It's an all new. all see-through world. Careful what we wished for, a consolation, The family photos seem to stand still. There is a ringing in your ears; It could be the wind, or it could be the years. They are watching our every move. They are listening to our every word. They worry we are their future. We hope they are ours. -- Bill Purdin: 1/18/08

WHEN WE WERE YOUNG WE That feeling in your stomach That you've screwed everything up Is just a feeling in your stomach, Not reality. Once dead, I woke up again. Once awake I remembered. As I remembered dying I smiled. Death is thinking it's over Giving into your stomach Thinking it's real: Fear overcoming. We all stand on precipices Over long falls to nowhere There is no bridge to Take us. An open mind will free you. Disregard trepidation's gravity And freefall with exuberance Of careless youth. When we were young we Knew we would live forever. When we were young we Had it right. Bill Purdin: 1/10/07

SHINING EYES Einstein discovered that velocity is relative And gravity is not a constant. The theory of relativity: that even as you approach The speed of light, light is still travelling At the speed of light but time has slowed down For you. In other words, matter and energy Are the same thing in different forms. Matter and energy make up everything. Everything is relative, leaning on each other. How you are determines how I am and Of course the reverse is true. The way you view the world is the world. The way you view me is me. And, of course the reverse is true. Look brightly with shining eyes on the world. Believe the best. See the best. Today is waiting at the speed of light For you. It needs you to see. Bill Purdin: 1/7/8

Just when you think you're weak, you're strong. Just when you think you're right, you're wrong. When you think you've got it all, you lose it all. When you think you're short, turns out you're tall. You search and search, but you don't find. Just can't make a meeting of The Mind. You pray for help but it does not arrive. Everyone's dying, but hey you're still alive. The secret of life is there's no dread. "All that, that is, is," as Shakespeare said. You try to fail but succeed. Life tricks you, oh yes indeed. Bill Purdin: 1/2/8

---

Poems 2007 | Poems 2006 | Poems 2005
Complete Works Listing
Remember to visit our Archives.

---

legendinc.com | Search | Ask | Archives | Online Store | Contact Us
Ad Info | Employment | Courier Pages | Marblehead Magazine
Stuff of the Day

---