Eulogy for David R. Edwards

What does the darkness look like behind closed eyes? Is it black? Grey, I think, dark grey with traces of the afterimage of hands on keyboard, the bright screen in front of the eyes, the light of walls beyond. I’m still so angry, but it’s fading now.

This is becoming some crappy journal entry. I don’t like that. I don’t want that. This is supposed to be a place where writing can spin off into something good.

Back to the matter at hand. When in doubt – pastoral. Can I write a pastoral about my house the way it exactly is right now? With the clutter, dirty dishes, table full of art supplies and bills and receipts. I have 940 square feet in this house and I spend 99% of the time when I’m here in this five foot square area.

Household pastoral – I like the sound of that.

See you on the other side, David. Be well,

Another video!

Inspired by March 2018

Stone smiles gathered about me, urging something, but the meaning was unclear

I’m getting this wrong – but my gut says I’m right.

Why don’t the eyes match the mouths on these people? Too preoccupied to allow the softening of soul

My gut says know

And so

I follow it.

This does not win friends and influence people.

But I can’t stay here for long

It’s bound to lead to spiritual rickets,

nosebleeds and charm deficits and so

I go…

I have no memory of when it’s not been this way.

To measure up to the crowd-sourced standard of value and goodness.

Conform and trade and the happy accident of celebrating obedience.

Outcast or broadcast – these are the choices.

The cool kids will understand that you do not belong.

But you do belong

you belong to yourself, and so long as that is not betrayed,

you will have won the battle against selling your soul

Flying Fish – monotype by Michele Montserrat


Mountain range, blue rolling out to the horizon, leaning over to the waters edge, downward into the reflection of sky, water cradles this upthrusting earth, and sun a piercing scintillation over the roof of the world, dancing off the mirror plane of waters. The endless sky full of marching clouds crossing over the foothills. While darkened pools cast silence over rippling fish homes, as they wriggle in the depths, breathing flowing silver, waving fin and tail, hidden from the radar of air dwellers. The skimming waves above the fluid breath of scales, a world, fin-dark and handsome, rolling with mud and shells, and all sounds enhanced through the gleaming pearlight dappling down.

Post-pandemic 071221

Bursts of blue and brown light flashing, velocity incredible, churning in a spiral toward the beam. Not seeing much of anything except movement. This too shall pass. This is what inevitably flows from the decisions made, the forks turned toward and taken. Deliberation in each moment, and the course of a life unfolds in following and then a home is found in that working wander.

This the only thing you can count on: movement bringing change, bringing revelation. What happens if the silent, still center is kept in the midst of all this winging? You cannot be apart from that stillness, any more than you can be apart from the movement. It is all a whole – movement, stillness, velocity, firm seat – all this is revealed in each moment.

Reality apparent and reality unfolding in the bone-crowned noggin happens all now and how can it all be re-smoothed into a seemless whole?

Many Forms of Comfort

August 23, 2020

Minneapolis Restaurant photo by Michele Montserrat

Another 2018 poem…

The Forms of Comfort

There are many forms of comfort –the comfort of feet tracing your well-worn patterns from bed, to stairway, to kitchen, to table. The comfort of the smell of fresh coffee brewed. The comfort of the taste of tea on your tongue.

There are many forms of comfort – the comfort of a lover asking you to tell them where it hurts, the comfort of being received without reservation, the comfort of giving Love your undivided attention.

There are many forms of comfort – the comfort of a good book at the end of the day. The comfort of a glass of wine at the end of a day. The comfort of a lover’s embrace at the end of a day.

The comfort of the sound of children playing in the park.

The comfort of hearing the frogs in the spring.

There are many forms of comfort – the comfort of thunderstorm’s boisterous break in summer’s heat breath. The comfort too of a northern lake in July.

The comfort of a warm blanket between you and the icy bones of January.

There are many forms of comfort – there is comfort in the rhythm of breath, the comfort of reading the sun as it rises, the comfort of the resolution to yesterday’s nagging problem.

There are many forms of comfort – the comfort of scratching your dog behind his ears, the comfort of receiving a letter in the mail, instead of adverts and bills.

The comfort of reading that letter in the sun which streams through your front porch windows.

The comfort of a fire at midnight.

The comfort of the shade at noon.

There are many forms of comfort – the comfort of finding out for yourself, the comfort of trusting in the process, the comfort in admitting when you don’t know everything.

There are many forms of comfort – the comfort of trusting in the earth, the comfort of trusting in doubt, and the comfort of openness.

There are many forms of comfort – the comfort of knowing you’re doing your best, the comfort of knowing you have places to be, the comfort of following the spark of inspiration to it’s never-ending end.

Like a Rolling Stone (After Bob Dylan)

August 19, 2020

“ConSecrate” mixed media painting by Michele Montserrat

Another 2018 poem…

Don’t know where I’m going, don’t know where it all rolls

I’m turning over the rocks in my path.

The pens have all lost their ink, so I’m carving words in mud instead.

Gritty words which leave their trace on the desk,

on the chair and on the floor

where you walked out the door last Tuesday night.

If my hands are not what they seem,

it’s because they have been scrubbing at the indelible paint

I tried to hide under whitewash and draperies

salvaged from dumpsters last year.