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Birds in Such Colorful Display

Lately I’ve been recording
a lot of my own pages of
writing, my own poems,
the poems in this very

long group of my
almost daily writings,
and so I’ve been posting
many of these recordings

that I’ve made out loud of
my own words knitted with
intention at various aspects
of the past twenty-two years,

occasionally finding sets that
I wish I could catch the spirit
of writing today. Sometimes
that is almost possible. In the

style of. Rather than renditions
or riffs on short parts of poems
or even new versions of entire
pieces, which are often easier to

do?  Yeah. Today the ones that have
given me the itch to try to repeat
stylistically are from sixteen, seven
teen and eighteen years ago around

this time of year, summer. How
specific I’m being. Yet how vague,
because is it the style of a piece I
want to duplicate or what I might

have been feeling at the time that
I wrote these pieces that give me
a bit of a tingle up the spine like a
few of them have for me today?

Perhaps it is strictly impossible, this
repetition or revival of whatever it
was. Of course I can’t be or do the
same exact thing altogether so as

to create in me such duplicate desire, 

but the attempts at these things can
set off a series of echoes that are,
as far as I am concerned, nice to

listen to. But I’m not the same.
Even a line identical to one I wrote
however long ago will mean a thing at

such a distance far from what the original 

line did.  It is as if the lines speak un

ecognizable languages at each other;

they look the same but are so many
years separated from each other.

This lack of resolution, the gap between
meaning, is the joy of it all, no matter
how fun it is to try on the old woven
words if a jacket found at the darkest

end of a closet, were I to have
such an aged one that I might explore.