© David Moorhead

Clowns on the shelf

They’re sitting shelf upon shelf in my den
staring at me
glaring at me
smilingly getting my attention.

They don’t move a muscle
haven’t served coffee
yet I keep them dusted
so they can show me happy.

Some dressed in silks, rayons, cottons
some are French, Mexican, or maybe American
tall, short, animated by springs and music
some brass plated, or porcelain,
or just plain cushy.

I must have been a clown magnet
but don’t send me another,
just now one has come from behind
and tapped me on the shoulder.

What To Say

I hardly know what to say; my heart keeps fluttering from one to the next thing without uttering a word of goodbye.

The new world catches me by surprise when I give a moment to ponder it. I can’t even imagine right now—too much of the old is still apparent.

Too much of the new world has already entered; I intuited its memory between others from youth. Someone even predicted Earth's cobalt cascade when I was only fifteen. Who cared?

I feel like cellophane is wrapped tightly around me; my body wants to stretch, to sing tunes and moan and laugh as before, but I’m waiting, strapped in a cocoon.

It’s again time to relish my heart’s rhythms, listen to a friend, listen to Mozart, listen to nature, listen to the lighted candle. The tongue hardly knows what to speak… this language is hardly mine any more.

It’s all about love, truly madly deeply shared. Fear stands no chance, and change is only a shell left behind for the next—it is you and I who care.

Our constant curiosity is key
to watching what's being created.  ~ DM