Poem of Expression on a Tuesday in September

    I read about the poet ee cummings: something of when he was young and with others.

    Reading of Picasso, likely, or perhaps Hemingway and Dos Passos.

    Either way, a while before my time. Before my dad's time, and my mom's.

    I think back to them, like where my mother went to church near Cape Cod,

    Or where my dad wandered by beaches and bridges.

    A bit like the author Paul Theroux.

    New England stock.

    Those are my folks. Myself and my siblings hail from the Mid-West.

    This is the United States.

    So we are ... Americans.

    We are.

    As was Hemingway, as was Faulkner, as was Fitzgerald, as was Steinbeck. 

    And London and many others.

    I was battle buddies, for months, with a guy named London.

    Different century.

    All Americans.

    I started a novel over there; where battles were fought a few decades ago.

    I saw the generals of us and them, our allies, speak of it.

    These battles for space that mean so much.

    Battles for space, and time, and freedom.

    We all need to do this in our own ways.

    Be free.

    Like Mr. Cummings. Or mr cummings.

    

    Yes, I am working on a novel. Started almost two years ago.

    I am progressing. I am.

    It is about a place and people that I saw, or almost knew, over ten years ago.

    It will come with time.

    My poetry and feelings comes with time. As it should be.

    So many other things. Job explorations. Children and vacations.

    My wife and my friend, finding lost treasures.

    Grateful and content.

    Dropping pounds, a mere three pounds away.

    Looking for words, seeing them in books and in my soul.

    Games, games, games. Some I play. Like chess, or ping-pong, or basketball.

    Others I watch, like football, tennis, and basketball.

    Life is pretty good, but I do need to sweat and go to bed hungry.

    Not bad.

    I could work harder, be more motivated, to learn my foreign languages.

    Be a better money earner. Things at our beck and call, and we refuse.

    I am writing a novel. In English.

    My native tongue.

    All things I ponder, and continue to move along.

    We dress, we shower, we brush, we visit the dentist today. 

    An old filling needs new filling.

    There is much more to say:

    My battle buddy in South Carolina said:

    Say less.

    Say less.

    Say no more.

    So be it.