Before I was a man,
I was a fitful lad,
regretful, sad, Ill-pleased,
lamenting the life I’d had.
Before I could become
a newborn worker of light,
I strode through valleys dark,
my angry fire burning bright.
There was no path,
yet miracles ensued,
friends helped me find my own,
my body and soul rescued.
The raging fire now quenched,
the rouged embers languish,
long after midnight’s knell,
yet I know this body healed,
every fiber, every cell.
(after Victor Hugo)
When I write these days,
there’s a choice in the ways
I can put pen to paper,
or 1’s and o’s to a screen.
When I start to write,
I first stare at the vehicle,
pad or pod,
give it a nod,
then really stare, no blinking,
just a gathering of what I
might be thinking,
what I intend it all to mean.
When I write these days,
it’s no different than the past,
knowing at the last,
that the screen is not blank,
the page is not empty.
There’s a lot already there,
so I continue to stare,
seeing the life earlier created,
although now mightily dated.
I see country roads and city streets,
village lakes and oceans deep.
I see family lost,
often regretting the cost.
I remember smoking all kinds of things,
being fat, thin, fat again,
recalling the cost of our wedding rings.
I realize I’m unlikely to write
the poem I think I’m writing,
maybe something softer, more vague,
perhaps a piece angrier, more biting.
I remember our cats, only one still around,
but I might write about them all,
lap cuddlers or not, quiet purrers at times,
at others a battlefield sound.
Then there’s nature abundant,
in the distance, on the road, in our backyard,
past work in my younger days,
mostly rewarding, even when hard.
I see the beaches and mountains,
some still visited today,
thinking, oh to be a child,
so easily filled with joy,
so ready for youthful play.
Unfaded Memories
Old men can’t help themselves,
it’s the nature of the beast,
the looking back,
the wondering about change,
about the passing of time.
What of the lake,
so needed in the dog days of summer,
those lazy, hazy days from June to September,
when there was no A/C to crank up.
Is it still a playground without toys,
loved by local girls and boys?
No matter the age we make,
one can’t forget the days,
the unfettered joys,
shared with friends
that time has taken.
We ran through sprinklers,
back and forth, back and forth,
kissed by the sun before retreating
to the shade of an elm,
enjoying an ice cold glass of lemonade,
the kind our moms made.
Is the sky still cloudy in summer,
white puffs portending the arrival
of the thunderheads to come,
rolling in from the plains?
Do children still see them
like pages from a book,
stories ever changing,
always rearranging,
And what of 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?
We couldn’t hear them,
sitting, listening to the gentle waves
lapping at the shore,
not catching them like those California surfers,
just wishing we never had to leave our beach,
never, not ever,
just wanting to stay young and happy, evermore.
On So Many Occasions
Should I feel afraid,
stuck at home, or
connected to my love, blessed with this opportunity?
Should I feel lonely,
sorry for my plight, or
connected to this shared experience with the world?
Should I feel forsaken,
distant from my neighbors, or
connected to this time to heal our Mother, our planet?
Should I feel alone,
lost in my fear, my aging body, or
connected to eternity, knowing I am a divine soul.
Should I feel lost in circumstances,
not the spiritual truth of things, or
connected to the certainty that I am one with God?
Today, at PoeticBloomings2, we write a “departure” piece, in honor of Marie Elena Good, who has found great joy in giving to her community. A bittersweet moment, to be sure, but not one of loss, knowing her to be a woman of great grace.
Summer’s Final Breath
Here in the true southwest,
summer hasn’t departed, but
autumn’s full arrival awaits,
offstage, in the wings,
visible but not yet tangible.
I check my pulse,
appreciate my heart,
check the mirror,
give it a thankful smile,
grateful for this good day, today.
When I want more,
I will first give thanks for
what I’ve been given,
prepare for what’s next,
a fair price to pay.
Knowing I am beating against time,
I hope I am ready.
As in every year,
only one question matters.
Will one work for peace and love?
I’m grateful, focused
on every door she opened,
not on one that is closing,
certain tyranny and oppression
are no match for her compassion.
Thinking of her Grace,
her many gifts,
I’ll have a great day,
or a greater day.
The prospects are endless.
For a simple guy,
whose joy has nothing
to do with clothes,
or thoughts of loss,
this is all good.
This week, at PoeticBloomings2, we wrote about anywhere we dreamed of going, a destination which awaits us. My attempt…
Bob Dylan Americana Red, White and Blues
Lemonade days,
Watermelon nights,
Backyard cookouts,
And seaside delights.
Fireworks explosions,
Sun tan lotions,
Root beer floats,
No need for coats.
Frilly light tops,
Beach time flip-flops,
Traveling nation,
Happy staycation.
Seasonal pears,
Prizes from fairs,
Shakespeare in the park,
Carnivals after dark.
Thundering skies,
Bright fireflies,
Sandal-free feet,
Ice cream so sweet.
Hopscotch skip,
Family road trip,
Poem some new rhyme,
Travel in time.
Bonfires with friends,
The heat never ends,
Swim in a pool,
Try to stay cool.
Trashy novels galore,
Marshmallows and s’mores,
Rolling in grass,
Sweating ice tea glass.
Adventures by biking,
See nature by hiking,
Oh say can you see,
How well I can Frisbee,
And watch how I play
A mad game of croquet.
Hammocks for napping,
Butterfly trapping,
Relax on a swing,
To America we sing.
Just yakking and lazing,
Nighttime stargazing,
Daytime blue skies,
Making mud pies,
Telling white lies.
My how time flies.
