Life Preserved in Word

The New Year brings a new revolution. New beginnings breathe new solutions while old habits receive new transfusions. Some take stock of a litany of transgressions hoping to start anew through total absolution. The earth on New Years’ Day is just like any other day and turns once around its axis much to my dismay then repeats itself year after year, day after day. I spent the previous year exploring worthy resolutions through reflection then deflection to create an illusion yet I always seem to come to the exact same conclusion. I appreciate the diverse ways others celebrate this day but I prefer to mend fences once they come my way and just like Christmas day I wish to spread out the joy to last as much of the year as my skepticism may deploy. Every day begins as a new revolution. © David Girard 31/12/19

at the age of nine me and sum friends of mine  slipped quickly through the trees like a spirit breeze  to appear at the motionally charged ocean  whose tide was at low ride  so all that remained was sand, rock and sea life drained of briny  let’s build a fire quick and the harvest we must pick  as it sleeps in beds exposed to the will of nine year-olds  who gather them up ready to shuck  so we’ll open them up slow - shuck no!   toss them in the fire and let it do all the work  because cooking and hissing and spitting  they will open slowly to reveal the best seaside sup  of cooked oysters in the shell with the aromatic tell  of an oyster, ocean and wood-fire potion  like the smell of freshly mown grass it’s something that will forever last © David Girard 18/12/19

Gamesmanship does not stand alone like good sportsmanship and poor sportsmanship because it is poor sportsmanship. I need to develop a thicker skin?   Try shedding a few layers you hippo critical rhinoceros! Astral showers fall flowers.   Fall showers astral flowers. As creakers of habit we tense with time. If someone falls asleep during my speech please wake me up. Lunacy is to become totally immersed within the confines of an appendage located north of the shoulders. Prison is where you make it. Those who think they know everything don’t know much at all and those who know everything are not of this world. Ask me anything. From ever close-up to away and afar the fine print of life reflects the stars. I’ve not become very attached to my hair but it’s attached to me. earring tinnitus Over-baked by three weeks makes me a “late bloom’n baby boomer.” Socialism is cannibalism of contrarianism. Some speak about living on borrowe...

today is your birthday yet another year removed from the day of your birth reminisce assuring levity and brevity contemplate future mirth and girth… of wellbeing and riches. © David Girard 11/12/19

I’m old enough that I sometimes don’t remember being young. I’m old enough that my skin and aura-faces wrinkle and succumb. A once swift flowing stream has been reduced to tinkle and hum. I can spent all day tinkering around and tinkling but when I go to bed I’m given some reprieve in dreams of glorious streams a twinkle that implore me to waken, arise and… tinkle. I’m old enough that I sometimes don’t remember being old enough that I sometimes couldn’t   remember being young. I’m old enough to be grateful for my family and friends and hope to never be old enough to pass a broken fence to mend. Should we rendezvous and I shan’t remember you don’t dismay as I’ll likely be happy to meet the same new people every day. Tinkle and hum… © David Girard 19/11/19

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In all honesty it’s the dishonest that suck the life out of you. Rend yourself open and search with untarnished scrutiny for deceit lurks deep within. © David Girard 08/11/19

  My Jesus, My Lord.  Am I destined for hell? Your taste extremely bitter, Intoxicating fragrance can’t smell.  You're without sin, but I wallow in it. I’m the black sheep of the flock in more ways than one.  A man that loves men, that’s what I am  And this was always a part of your plan.  I must be myself the best that I can.    When amongst others, idly, we talk.  Not the gospel of song but gossip of rot. I ponder, O Lord, what's to be my Lot?  Enter a fiery furnace that eradicates me?  Like Judas Iscariot, disgraced and hung in a tree. Or the “woman at the well," whom you set free?    Will I become a violent Hitler or a peaceful Gandhi? I must be myself the best that I can.   © David Girard 25/03/15

From where does hope spring? I know hope can diminish to almost nothing like a kettle’s last lingering vapors. Can it be completely lost or abandoned like an unwanted gift? Losing hope is tragic, numbing and exhausting. Can it, will it be fully rediscovered? Is hope reborn of our cerebral canals as a reflection of the innocence and joy of a cherubic child or a memory of euphoric sanguineness? Perhaps hope is an enigmatic specter of one’s desire for eternal future good that is unattainable resulting in intermittent bouts of hopelessness. Hope can be given or lost and cannot be taken but it can be found of one’s desire for future good. Desire fuels hope’s fire. © David Girard 01/11/19

knock on the old block aid first chipped from a tree to see saw mill lumber jack pine for me swiftly uphill of hope to sea view can’t see so spurred on to belt up scale a tree at top of the day time look and sea side of slope is the sun of a blocking tree a big black eye in scenery topple over to bottom and free bee from hive to wax to ski downhill propelled by gravity Yippee! Smack! knock on the old block….. © David Girard 26/10/19

static flowing ebbing growing obtuse direct absorb reflect light imploding colour exploding prism shatter crystal matter fissure shard acute unmarred deflect projectile hurtle past setting sun exposing all millions of tiny fragments aglint intimation of our mortality lay broken as one in gentle repose © David Girard 24/10/19

five syllables long then two syllables longer five syllables wide I need seventeen but I can find only twelve what line do I skip? I am unruly and hate to count syllables if only a few I count better now and syllabify with ease can’t grasp Japanese © David Girard 21/10/19

Along came some children directly related to me who would often play for hours in the family tree. People say they look like mom or maybe dad or one of their grandmas or perhaps a grandad or take after cousins, aunts or uncles you can easy see because they’re all hanging out in the family tree. They seem mostly happy and seldom sad the family tree has come to be their outdoor pad. “Listen up, it’s supper time so c’mon in to wash up and eat “ and soon they serenade us with the pitter-patter of ten little feet. Some years later along came more children related to me itching to climb up and play in the family tree. Some say they look like mom or maybe dad or one of the grandmas or perhaps a grandad. They seem mostly happy and seldom sad having the time of their lives are the wee lassies and lads. I hear the pitter-patter of the children’s little feet. “Heh where’s grandpa? This is where we’re supposed to meet.” ...

Dark places, dark places buried deep within me faces in places that are too dark to see. There are spaces in the dark places where I often hide inside a façade of thick hide that exudes confidence and pride. It must be difficult to get in past my skin thick and hard because I struggle to get out into my own backyard. If you respect my dark places genuine I’d be able to expose the dark places inside of me. Darkness is mostly perceived in a negative light though it has no choice and can’t put up a fight. Inside the dark places every once in a while I get a glimpse of familiar eyes and a toothy smile Without dark places light would be in a dim situation of little contrast resulting in sleep deprivation. My dark places may be a therapeutic place to go for solace, resolution and enlightenment to grow. Beware of dark places I can’t stay too long or soon I’ll be singing the tune of “the therapist song.” ...

Sometimes I need to be bad to have a good idea where normal is. Sometimes it’s not a bad idea to be good to know where normal is. On a good day I normally fall somewhere between good and bad and on a bad day somewhere between bad and good. I don’t feel so bad when I’m good but sometimes I feel so damn good when I’m bad! © David Girard 09/10/19

Haven't seen you for years my eyes give way to tears the kind that old family friends shed for each other. Though we lived on opposite sides of the street in the middle we’d  meet with commitment and respect carried proudly on everyone’s feet. Should emergencies arise it came as no surprise that trouble made the head count double at one house or the other. The far side of the street seems a long way away to a child but the older you get the distance appears much less even though you’re further away. Some of us are orphans now and we've survived somehow though it seemed impossible at the time. As old family friends we are with you right now on the other side of the street though our gazes shan’t meet because the distance has increased and some of us can’t see but old family friends just don’t care if we’re not all there in numbers or faculties. Well so long Andy old friend! Please give our love t...