The Gift of Life

 

Who Can Tell

Our life is not a dream,

there’s no magic in our art,

though to others it might so seem,

we are simply playing our part.

It’s no accident, no stroke of luck,

we do not bumble,

seldom stumble,

satisfied each day

with what life has to say.

Even if our life were a dream,

it would need to be embraced,

but no golden palace, no silver hill,

no white elephant need be chased.

Our life, like our love,

though not a dream, remains

unfathomable, indescribable,

it simply sits there, glowing.

We cannot forever keep it,

so for a short while, we 

bathe in its perplexity,

revel in its complexity,

be content in never knowing.

Satisfaction

 

Speak softly, carry

a big agenda: 

peace, calm, empathy

and undemanding love.

Make me smile and

laugh until it hurts.

Go ahead, I dare you.

Be a little wild,

use your imagination,

avoid snark to snark combat.

I Reserve the Right

 

I want to be 

seduced by beauty, 

have it look a lot 

like truth.

Not too quickly,

not all at once.

I want to let it 

come at me slowly,

give me time 

to get a feel for it,

before I bid it flow

in my material world.

As with my

experience of Grace,

I want to be primed,

relaxed in readiness,

wishing more for wisdom

than for intelligence,

praying more for peace

than for just a good time.

No Poem Is An Accident

 

He knew it was best to

follow his gut when it

came to his scribblings,

to let his stomach tell him

the truth, when his desire for

approval tried to

lead him astray.

He knew that every poem 

was born from a need,

each one a mystery,

yet all of them on a mission,

a fight, or flight,

to reveal his life.

He knew it best to

follow his gut, but

those damn buttons,

send and post and share, 

so easy to push, so easy to

lead him into temptation,

when he knew it best to

follow his gut, to

attend to his heart.

If Not for Me, Who?

 

I will not sit idly by,

allowing all those hurtful words,

the weak should not be made to cry,

if they are harmed, then we cross swords.

I will not sit idly by,

by my quiet allowing bullies to berate,

to abuse the weak, as they often try,

and when they do, I won’t hesitate.

I will not sit idly by,

hearing hebe, spic, nigger, dyke,

faggot, cripple, crybaby cry,

rag head, slope, slut and kyke.

I will not sit idly by,

or I would be the same as them,

I will not allow these words to fly

without response, never again.

From Mary Oliver

 

From “May”, by Mary Oliver

“As a poem or a prayer can also make.”

Peace

A simple piece is best, as

only a 

poem,

a letter or

perhaps a

prayer

might bring, if it can,

contributing also

to the peace we make.

Dear Friend

 

Here Shall My Heart Find its Haven of Calm

Dear Friend,

I find myself thinking

of you, me, us.

It’s a lovely, gentle thought,

leaves me with a smile.

I don’t always expect nuance from myself, 

yet once in a while, it just pops out, 

most often in a poem, 

frequently inspired by another person, 

their writing or speaking.

Someone like you.

Sometimes, when there is a strong breeze, 

it blows right through the hole in me 

that was formed by my own

unmet dreams and expectations.

Not so when I think of you.

As busy as I know you to be,

I’ll only take a minute,

just to tell you to a certainty

that the world I know is

better because you’re in it.