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A poem from 2 decades ago. I am working to put together a small volume of my few poems and humorous short-shorts, led in by something new:


When I was a child

my uncle laughed

and gestured at the sky

and stabbed it with his pipe and said

that men could never fly like birds,

with tilt and song,

and I thought time had proved him wrong

and he was crazy.

But now that I am older

I yearn to fly like birds

or simply laugh

like crazy old St. Francis, or Ji Gong,

whose heart was ever in the air,

and whose care was dosed with love or laughter,

seeking truth the way an old man hikes,

with careful pace, attentive strides,

concerted but not lazy,

and every day I miss him,

and wish to soar, and

trust the things that trusted him,

and gambol on a whim

and seek the thing that he sought after,

for truth is not described by lines,

but rises to a winter sky

like smoke.

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