There is a time for production and
A time for induction. I am learning
A Scott Joplin piece and I have nothing
To say. Fallow land is still being farmed
If not by man or woman, then by God
And if God be too high to comprehend cognitively and get, yet
All that is works on brain synapses
Which some call mind, others the soul
On a fallow head
I’ve labored hard abnegating everything else
Sabbatical’s completed creativity rests.
But since time still needs filled and CNN
Repeats itself on the hour and TV’s repeating movies fail to move
I play the piano. And learn Scott Joplin’s Mexican Serenade;
I read a little, listen to classic rock, maybe jazz, and wake up my days to baroque, sipping coffee
In my following of sabbatical fallow induction
After all, there needs to be some substantive thing to make something
Sleeps dreams arrange the brain
Psyche’s stresses become meaning in sleep
David Fekete 