chrishancock789

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The other side of a full moon is a let down, All that energy, all that potential, Gone Waning away. This is when the goofballs come out, The deniers, the ones accepting no responsibility, Come to think of it, Is each day a waning full moon?

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Washing a soul in new philosophies
Takes the tired and haggard
To the edge of renewal.

Hearing fresh perspectives
Settles the dust rising from being nothing,
From doing the same.

All in, commitment,
The place to be, the energy requirement
Necessary to be clean.

Let’s go.

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No lights,
No noise,
Except for the pedestal fan,
Its hum providing a breeze
That couldn’t be characterized as noise
Because this was soothing,
Not the normal chatter that filled the room.
We sat, socially distanced,
The full room between us
With only an occasional, “Talk to me,” or “Whatchya got”
Neither really an invitation to conversation,
More of a proclamation that the other was awake
For our break between classes is so long
And with the crazy November thunderstorms darkening the sky
And with the lights allowing the room to take on night’s visage
Both of us struggled to stay awake.

Maybe tomorrow will be the same.

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Thank goodness for Viking shows,
High grade 90s B-movies, and
Sam the Cooking Guy on YouTube
Because I think with their heroic efforts
And with some outdoor running,
Time away from work, and
Stupid exercising on my part,
A fog is lifting,
The haze that has been November is lifting,
Things are getting better,
No alcohol to help,
No ranting, raving, or regurgitation,
Just some simple patience,
Good food for the body, and
More than a little looking into my dog’s eyes
To see things his way,
Calmly,
Wisely, and knowing
That dinner is just around the corner.

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Taken by the trails,
Wet leaves covering mounds of horse poop,
Rocks settled in the peet,
Smelly, but sound footing, nonetheless.
Weak winds blew a teasing wind,
Just enough for the climate deniers,
Certainly, they can’t believe a real winter is coming.

Each step was beautiful,
The agony of the hills,
The picturesque run up to the creek,
The Rockwell shuffle through covered bridges.
Alas, there was a heavy sweat on my brow,
A sure sign that it was too hot for this late date,
Take that climaticians.

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Words like tired and irritated
Describe this year.
The politics, the pandemic, the times,
Each have made this year a suffer fest.
Motivation wanes,
Basking in binge mode,
Denying my Myers Briggs pedigree.

I have nothing left for this year,
No patience for the “lack”
Of leadership,
Of community,
Of cowardice.
Let it end, this 2020,
But not before the end of my latest show.

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Rushing things a little,
Our Christmas tree is up,
Simple this time, no ornaments,
Kind of the way I like it, but that’ll change.

Hushing things a little,
My dog is a pile of paws,
Down for the night, couch bound,
Just the way he likes it and there is no change coming.

Pushing things a little,
Fighting the urge to go to bed
I’ll sit here looking at the tree
Then I’ll follow my dog’s lead and head to bed.

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The whispers of how are not to be heard
She passed in a mystery
Gales are meant to keep the quiet.

Tracking devices do not lead to the heavens,
Nor does it seem they know where grades and cable boxes are,
The technology does not reveal managerial secrets.

How we survive, not easily explained
Mysteries abound in the cosmos
Never to be understood.