I noticed that I put off writing today. I was very busy, you know. I have important things to do. I heard that story go on for hours and then I asked myself, “what the hell is going on here?” Oh, I don’t want to stop and reflect. I want to be like the robot, who is programmed to be busy all the time.

So stop I did and look out at the stream and the gray sky. The music the family is listening to travels in and I remember there are others in this world other than me. I don’t know if you have the same experience, but it’s so easy to forget what I said was important this morning.

I’m glad I remembered before the day is over, and now I write this poem. Poetry is the music that gives me perspective and a reminder that what’s real is seldom what I think.


Sometimes it’s just a few words or a smell or a glance that brings everything to a halt.
I don’t know where they originate or their timing. They surprise.

The only thing is, I miss most of them. I’m cruising along as fast as my mind can travel
and there is so little else that I notice. I move deeper into my maze of thoughts.

I forget the moment when time last stopped. I overlooked your kindness just last night.
I only see the cold when the sun has been shining all day.

I blink and when I next look in to the mirror, I wonder what happened. Who is this
strange man looking at me? He seems so sad.

Is it too late to remember to stop and feel the breeze or taste the rain or feel your touch?
Maybe not; perhaps it just takes remembering what’s real.


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