Every day is a surprise,
Maybe today, I’ll open more
to the good which awaits me,
take myself less seriously,
try to not give my peace away easily,
allow time to think on my spiritual nature,
rest in a peaceful heart,
smile when something is delicious,
and when it’s beautiful, simply sigh.
True happiness can not be mistaken
for anything else,
not even when it is tucked inside
surprise and delight.
An anapodoton is an unfinished phrase that a person can fill in the blanks, phrases like “When in Rome,” “If life gives you lemons,” “Speak of the devil,” and “Where there is a will.” For many (if not all) of these, you probably filled in the second half of the phrase, because you know it so well. On Day 27 we put a twist on it
Everything Happens for a Season
Unbelievably,
I don't believe
everything happens
for a reason.
Some things just are,
awaiting the proper season-
-ing.
Incredibly,
I also don't believe
everything I think.
Sometimes,
I'm just off kilter,
a little on the blink,
functioning without filter.
Alternatively,
I do believe it’s a good idea
for a poem or a thought,
that which my muse brought,
to rest awhile,
until it’s ready,
delivering an inner smile.
In Plain Sight
My prayers are about
holding others in my heart,
seeing them all loved.
As my day begins,
I see opportunity
to find joy, laughter.
Seeing all discord
as an opportunity
can lead one to calm.
It’s not important
to always know how or why,
simply see the truth.
I see it’s all Good,
thankful for all my teachers,
whose bright lights still shine.
I look and I see.
Sometimes I look and don’t see.
See what I’m saying?
Truth
You are.
Be still and know
you are both
the singer and the song.
You are.
You are.
Be still and know
you are both
the sculptor and the marble.
You are.
You are.
Be still and know
you are both
the painter and the paint.
You are.
You are.
Be still and know
you are
both the dreamer and the dream.
You are.
Sometimes Hot, Sometimes Cold
Sometimes I’m cooking with gas,
others I’m flat on my, wait, pass
the salt, please, amp up the umami,
in the veggies, starch, even the salami.
I enjoy prepping for friends,
their hunger, my creating, a perfect fit,
my joy of cooking for others never ends,
not even when they over salt a little bit.
On Day 21, we are given six words to weave
into a poem…
War Story
Physically prepared,
not going to bow to any enemy,
a lean, mean fighting machine,
a combat ready Marine,
so it would seem,
or so it was before
the plane delivered him,
taxied, parked and unloaded
him to the battle,
before he saw what awaited,
the tearing of a small nation,
finding himself
wounded less by what happened
to his body, more by what
we did to that country.
She’s an Animal
She’s got cat power,
that one gal of mine,
and that’s just one reason
she’s my valentine.
She’s got cheetah speed,
when it comes to what’s right.
If you’re thinking I love her,
you know I just might.
She has an elephant’s memory
after all of these years,
fifty-two and counting,
most of them dears.
She has the mischief of monkeys
when it hits her, the mood,
her teasing’s outrageous,
her jokes mostly good.
She’s not tall, no giraffe,
more koala in size,
but height doesn’t matter,
she’s the light of my eyes.
She’s saved me from goofs,
gives me reasons to smile,
likely forever,
and that’s a long while.
Almost April
The gloom of winter is nearly now gone,
but summer still sleeps,
not quite ready for her big entrance.
This is spring, and she’s still young,
so, satisfied, we capture
bits of today’s breezy brilliance,
enlivened by the simple pleasure of it all,
grateful for this good day.
It might actually be a good day,
nothing too grand, nor magical,
simply a few hours of quiet enjoyment,
some idle conversation with the neighbors,
a sisterly Sunday phone call on the patio,
cheered by the crisp sunlight of late March,
hands shielding eyes against the glare,
smelling the ocean in the thin clouds,
as the last of the foothills snow melts.
Melting snow cannot mute
the hopeful sounds of passersby,
as baseball season is upon them,
the dark days of busted brackets behind,
still a rosy outlook for the local heroes,
not yet time for clever analysis,
of what went wrong this time.
There’ll be time later for the reality of defeats,
their shadows eclipsing summer’s bright sun.
Today is a time for hope.
In the Blink of an Eye
Hope can’t stop the age game,
to a body run flat.
It’s all over too soon,
that’s simply a fact.
Gone in a flash, in a blink,
and none of us has
as much time as we think.
In my case I pray,
I’ll be caring, more present,
before my final day,
attentive and pleasant
in the here and the now,
Thinking at the end,
now that was some wow.
All things are ephemeral,
they come and they go,
it’s a good thing, in general,
to think this, to know
that if I would be happy,
to prosper, to thrive,
it’s best to be joyful
about being simply alive.
Inspiration
Words, lines, complete poems
often come at night,
words in flight, here then
gone, too often fled when
one refuses to rise,
bring light to the shadows.
In the ‘tween times,
before new day has begun.
Ideas spring unbidden,
prompted by moonlight,
fueled by dreams,
or nightmares.
Great rhymes are found,
written down,
or lost,
no matter how inspired.
It’s the night shift,
poems birthed in shadow,
starlight used to burn
the words in stanzas,
each spinning on its axis,
a muse-ical nocturne.
Forget and Forgive
When old age arrives,
every body’s memories fade.
Not so our hearts.
I can’t clearly see what’s next,
but I’m unafraid to trade
history for mystery.
Every new day, I am
invited to give and forgive.
I like this.
Breathing in, I see
I am living in Grace.
Breathing out, I’m grateful.
Sounds
After a somewhat lengthy journey,
spanning my entire life, actually,
listening only to the sound of my feet,
I think I have arrived at wisdom.
Tomorrow morning, perhaps
I’ll arrive at it again.
There’s much to be learned at this age.
A little loss of sound can be a blessing,
helps with quiet contemplation,
the self-absorption usually reserved for youth,
though such meditation can be unsettling,
perhaps after a night of unsound sleep.
I once learned one true thing,
attending a monastic retreat,
where the sound of chanting monks
filled my heart, teaching me that
when I would have music and peace,
I need make only one simple sound.
Rain
Overnight rain falls
with its own unique sound,
blanketing the dryness
of yesterday’s ground.
I wake, see and smell it,
childhood memories receptive,
some of them messy,
a few so beautiful,
but I know that beauty is deceptive,
even the strange,
not-quite-morning light,
which God has arranged
to begin my day bright.
More Than One
Go slowly, be kind,
for everyone you
meet is now fighting
some battle, struggling
between heart and mind.
The things one knows
in this life can
be found in both,
heart, and heart-mind.
Each moment,
one chooses
starts anew.
Hoping,
trusting.
Self.
How
Wound Tight by Invisible Wounds
Oh those days
not knowing about
the PTSD lingering in
my life,
confusing those close
while finding ways
to close the the door
on the love which
might be the cure.
Small Town, U.S.A.
I grew up in a little village,
surrounded by God.
It only looked like it was
encircled by thirty taverns.
Joy was in that place,
with blessings and grace,
Spirit ever showing,
love overflowing.
Once a Year
Country carnivals are captured
in his memory, wrapped
in their colors, smells and sounds.
Old school, traveling shows,
the best of a young life filled with
delights more than worries.
Today, in a life too complex,
it’s a joy to recall
the days when the carnival
came to his village.
There were so many new sounds,
music to youthful ears,
and the special tastes and smells,
new, unique, almost alien.
The ease of it all,
still evoking memories of weekends
with visiting uncles, aunts
and city cousins all around,
going out but being home.
The things he most holds on to,
remembers now, even more than
the crowds, music, chatter,
are the smells of the popcorn,
and corn dogs, cotton candy
spun out of nothing but air,
man how they'd wow,
and the thought of
hot, salty peanuts alone
bring him back to his childhood.
On Day 5 of National Poetry Month we are prompted to title our poems,
“(Noun) in (Location)”…
Trouble in Paradise
Very early on, before it became California,
winters were mild, game was bountiful, fish plentiful,
survival not an issue. No mortgage, no outside noises,
time for family and friends, singing and dancing,
time to embrace spirituality, enjoy nature, create art.
Early on, before cities and cars,
the villages below obscured by mist,
One can imagine the hunter-gatherers,
bows and clubs in hand, snares at their waist,
bags of mussels and grasshoppers for a later meal.
Later on, standing atop Sonoma Mountain,
the Santa Rosa plain in white-out from the fog,
thinking about what was gained and lost,
one could imagine the time before the Europeans came,
before a different type of white-out.
Much later on, finding a muse in one’s bemusement,
as the sun peeks over the mountain, lifting the fog,
one can imagine the coming of Drake, maybe Magellan,
the Spanish priests and Russian trappers,
And one can grasp the meaning of paradise lost.
Dream World
I woke between late and early,
some kind of bad dream crashing in.
I thought about you,
your strength carrying me through.
You’re everything I need to know,
everything I need, and so,
our love is written in concrete,
not always gay, nor honey sweet,
our quiet passion a poet’s dream,
mates for life, so it would seem.
All this and more I can say about you,
I can’t imagine a way without you.
Ours 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 love were a dream,
it would need to be embraced,
but no golden palace, no silver hill,
no white elephant need be chased.
Our love, like life,
though not a dream, remains
unfathomable, indescribable,
it simply sits there, glowing.
We cannot grasp it,
so we simply
bathe in its perplexity,
revel in its complexity,
be content in never knowing.
———————————————-
Life’s Reality
All my books matter
as increasers of my life.
Reality plus.
When my dreams are
more vivid than reality,
I forget to act.
During some mornings,
it really seems that my mind
has a mind of its own.
