August 2022 17’s

 

Seventeen each day,

I’m poetry in action.

There is rhythm there.

Yes, time might be short

but there is still no such thing

as too many books.

We’re not all alike.

Lemons float while most limes sink.

Be kind to sinkers.

Peace lives in my heart.

It’s always a part of me.

It can’t be destroyed.

I live to see them,

small amounts of pure beauty.

God’s gifts to us all.

“Why me?” doesn’t help.

A better choice might just be:

“What can I do now?” 

I plan for what’s next 

but try not to fret on it.

What will be will be.

You can try to shame,

or you can lead with your love.

It’s always your call.

Friends appreciate 

you reaching out to them now

more than you might think.

The shape of a mind

depends upon whose it is.

For me, serpentine.

A Venn diagram:

Love, gratitude, hopefulness…

Humble arises. 

I’m seventy-eight

now, let me elaborate,

my life is just great.

I have loved my life,

and it has loved me right back,

as I live in joy.

I cast my net wide,

go forward with hopefulness,

expect only good.

It’s an honor, such

a blessing, to know people

throughout a lifetime.

I’m comfortable 

because I chose harmony

with Spirit itself.

I notice how life

does support me when I make

choices consciously. 

Love with abandon,

contribute to a nicer,

friendlier world.

I cooperate

with my own healing and find

that it really helps.

I enjoy my own 

company, sitting, pausing,

immersed in no thoughts.

I am a candle

which cannot be extinguished.

I’m a lightworker.

Why do I say no

when yes would serve me better?

Mysterious, huh?

Every poem I write

stems from living, reading and

really listening.

I do what I can 

to not make my mind a foe,

tell it of my heart.

Teachers change our lives.

We should conspire to aid and 

better abet them.

Do be an artist.

Yes, be a kindness artist.

Paint that picture now.

Future’s on the way,

so why not assume the best?

We can make it so.

If my faith depends 

on approval from others,

it’s too small for me.

When things get too hard,

as they sometimes do for me,

ask if it’s worth it.

It takes faith and skill

to trust in the unknowing.

Just sit with the flow.

Time can’t be trusted.

Young, it is forever’s start.

Old, much the same thing.

A poem for Dennis

 My Passing Friend

It was natural and easy

to tell him how I felt

after he had lain ill before,

after my own infirmity 

made us partners again. 

It’ll be harder now,

but not impossible.

Still, it’s been but a short while 

and I am already losing that smile,

the truth of his gaze,

the wonder of his face.

So I will write of him when I can,

tell others about a good man,

in this way perhaps I’ll let

myself never forget.

Independence Day

 “Ram, Ram”, he said,

said it aloud,

“Ram”, the Hindu

word for God.

Non-violent leader

of a violent nation,

shot dead by a fanatic

in a railway station.

Shot three times

in his stomach and chest,

independence would follow,

but you know the rest.

He had fasted, walked freely,

aware of the danger,

yet he died with a smile,

no hatred, no anger.

His hands in front of him,

prayerful and steady,

“Ram, Ram”, he said,

“God, God”, he was ready. 

Shore Lines

 Impossible to resist,

the looking back,

thinking about change,

the passing of time,

merely a human tack.

Wondering about our lake,

a blessing in the dog days of summer,

those Midwest days from June to September,

when there was no A/C to crank up,

just a small fan. Remember?

Is it still a playground without toys,

loved by local girls and boys?

No matter one’s age

one can’t forget the days,

the excitement when we’d awaken,

the unfettered joys,

shared with friends

that time has taken.

Nothing too grand, 

yet all of it magical,

our days and nights at our lake,

on our families’ shores,

the warmth of the sun,

the youthful camaraderie.

Even more appreciative now of

what was in our hearts.

Those summer nights

under the stars,

the sights and sounds,

the Northern Lights.

Still filled with crickets, 

owls and fireflies?

Mothers calling? 

Children whispering, telling lies?

Pretending we couldn’t hear them,

our mothers, all of them,

sitting, listening to the gentle waves

lapping at the shore,

just wishing we never had to leave our beach,

never, not ever,

not knowing then we just wanted

to stay young and happy, evermore.