On Times I'm Not Myself

On the Times I'm Not Myself

I whiz down the mountain path,
a young man cycling boldly
on the old rail-trail, former
route of the Great Northern rail,
home of grizzlies, mountain lions,
trout-laden rivers and streams.
I crank over trestles bearing
old bridges like an ancient
steam engine chugging away
through old-growth forest redwoods.

I draw beautiful images
and paint exotic pictures
imagined from the comfort
of my seaside artist's lair.

I stride the final fairway
at Augusta with Tiger Woods
one stroke ahead for my first
Master's championship as I
inhale the fragrance of
fresh magnolias, consume
the buzz of the maddening
crowd cheering me to victory.

I write nonsensical verse
meant only for private eyes
and ears, discovered after
I'm gone to make some sense
and published after the fact,
etching my name in the book
of immortal and forgettable
bardic scribblers and sages

I catch and release the fish
of my dreams- old iron head
to spawn again, release genes
into the genetic pool-
ontogeny recapitulates
phylogeny, evolution

I stroll with you hand- in- hand
young lovers on a country lane
seeking a hide-a-way, our
secret spot, where desires find
fulfillment and dreams become
reality. Where trouble
disappears and what might have
been comes to fruition.

I become myself again
capable of inventing
dreams, escaping the now
reveling in imagination
celebrating the mind-
a most enchanting thing,
bright, like a rock star's bling.