a morning journal

watch the red dripping 
with blue edges 
worn by scrapers and sandpaper sticks 
scoring lines across green droplets 
yellow mists across no sky found redeeming

watch what happens when I claim my truant freedom 
and dance a child's hands on the paper
let the wind and the sound of the day 
guide my trembling muse 
like I am living in this dream without purpose 
only to play each day away 
and have faith that God knows of my silly morning

what can you say on a typewritten page? 
where is the feel of paper rasping beneath an old pen? 
I am tapping a keyboard like a mutant pianist 
unable to involve more than 2 fingers in this poor waltz 
I am operating at 20% dexterity 
and hope to find the magic to encompass the rest of my being

it feels like such futile exercise 
trusting plastic connection for a poem of soul 
I am gripped by this computer and sense the force it exudes 
and shrouds my own like a cloud of fog on a field of wildflower 
I used to know the touch of paper, the score of parchment 
crisp under the bent light 

I am still looking at my watch 
hoping for an end to the futility 
to say "I did it" to deaf teachers
this is hard work and it tires me greatly 
because I miss others watching 
and laughter does not come readily to cats


			© Chuck Beals    January 2000