Emit Time Poets, physicists, and philosophers have discussed traveling in time. They have focused on change, consequences, contingency, and the never was of is. Philosophers, physicists, and poets flail in a river that has no source, no banks, no end, and no forks. There are so many questions like ‘Are we not there yet?” This poem runs on time. I must be quick to propose this; If time itself simply began a rewind, we wouldn’t even know it, would we? In any garden a path must go both ways. Preserving The Ghost Process grows and thickens with the rituals of advice, tips, tricks, and the lore of shortcuts. The true craftsman bends a nail deep in dovetails of ancient dust humbled by the handsaw of time. History, knowings, and legend are particle essence of waves in the medium of all remains of art and alloys of memory. We possess the possessors’ writing, on stone to code. Reflection or inflection fill the missing history with hope for futures braided out of spirit. Hammered etchings meld flesh with words. One Day in Amsterdam On a flight from Canada to Kenya we had a daylight layover in Amsterdam. Early train in and back for a late flight, but in between, well you know the things travellers do . . . . . . a quote from a poem I wrote; “Room to room tourists step the confined ways like synapse signals as memory forms in the living house.” . . . and where words failed in the stirring of suns and stars in Vincent’s voice of light. Poem For Who Have Not lame but lissome, moving like a light summer breeze, needing but kind, hurt behind doors, patient by the wayward trail poor, without one but kind to children, saver of true things, modest but proud, no petition or privilege, warmth waiting on a wharf not possessive as you do without, appreciating of other voices, clement dignity, beauty needing no light Scraving Truffle words smelling of sand are sweetened and contained within the muddled pen. It is the in and out of it; (‘I’ person and universe both directionless.) A grave matter of expanding space for fading time moves into light of a crackling conscious fire. Brooks scrave new words from rock; suspiring, scouring, and babbling; deepening the course of mind.
J.S. MacLean has been writing poetry since the early 70s with two collections “Molasses Smothered Lemon Slices” and “Infinite Oarsmen for one” available on Amazon. He has around 175 poems published in journals and magazines internationally in Canada, USA, Mexico, Ireland, UK, France, Israel, India, Bangladesh, Thailand, and Australia. He enjoys the outdoors, and indoors too. In 2007 he won THIS Magazine’s Great Canadian Literary Hunt in Poetry (1st Prize). He strives for lyrical and hopes for accidental.