Too young to know better, she
chose a life filled with a mix of
madness and gladness, not hers
so much as his, he too unknowing,
angry at times, sullen at others,
until that day of ultimatum, saying she’d
leave if he’d be happier, but she knew he
would not become so, so she stayed with
him and with his occasional insanity,
fulfilling her caregiving destiny until he
found his own answers.
Raw spring erupting,
summer’s plantings unfolding,
autumn’s calm at last
Young and Foolish
Recalling when I’d pull an all-nighter,
thinking this might make me appear brighter,
but it it was all just a joke,
and at test time I’d choke,
a still-stupid, tired young blighter.
A Persona Poem From A Cat
You know how humans are,
the ones who ooh and ahh,
so easy to maintain,
their needs are simple, plain.
Their stress can not survive
playtime with a cat,
each encounter its own
time of renewal and brighter days,
so much joy and gratitude in that.
Sometimes I only observe,
watch them take a break from chores,
thinking the backyard is theirs,
a place to bask in the morning sun,
inviting me to join them,
urging me to join in their idling fun.
They’re grateful for an audience,
especially when at silly play,
tossing me my alternative mice,
and I appreciate genuine warm-heartedness,
a human who is more than food-giving nice.
They constantly remind me to become
someone worthy of their friendship,
letting go of ego, power, pretense,
inspiring me to live a life of
incisive simplicity and common sense,
and when I meet a new cat anywhere,
no matter where I might go,
offering a nose to nuzzle,
remembering to say hello.
I Hear You
Most veterans of foreign wars,
reflective of my own small life,
spent every day after
their most important war,
the one which happened to them,
trying to forget,
what they saw,
what they did.
The spiritual truth, though,
is that it is healthier,
more transformative,
to remember,
to rise above,
to poke through the veil
of denial.
It can take great effort
to give thanks,
to listen to the whispers
of gratitude and appreciation,
to allow memories
to be heard, shared,
if sharing might contribute
to the Good.
This is the path to healing,
of appreciation for the chance
to be of service, to live gratefully
in the life one was given.
When I allow my heart
to be touched by gratitude,
followed by generosity,
it’s the most selfish I can be,
as it improves my mood,
being a force for good.
When I give away
some of what I have today,
I find it calming,
soulfully balming,
knowing when enough is enough,
growing by not buying any more stuff.
When I turn to what others need,
it’s my own heart I feed,
realizing at the very start
it’s best to simply show up,
be present, open my heart.
If others have nothing for me,
no problem, no fret, can’t you see,
I have enough for all of us,
they, them, you, us, we.
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.
When I am in a rush,
it’s a good idea to slow down,
maybe even stop.
Right pacing can change my life,
give me me a moment
to look within, to know.
Just a moment?
What the heck,
let’s take the whole day off,
mix in peaceful thoughts,
words, feelings, actions,
perfect for a needy world.
When you see me cry,
it does not necessarily mean
I need help.
Sometimes, pure beauty
has that result in me,
like the glory of the young
who do not think
they should stop trying
to improve the world.
For me, nearing another decade,
whatever future
I am trying to shape
shapes me in return,
sometimes tearfully.
I will continue to seek magic,
look for legerdemain,
change what saddens me
by changing my mind,
believing the solutions we need
lie only in those realms.
But I will look also
to my heart,
posit my soul’s purpose,
light another candle,
pen just one more plea.
There is this book which has been
following me around for weeks now.
Actually, not following so much as
accompanying, fitting nicely in
my hand, or atop my desk,
in the room I sometimes share with a cat.
The book is important.
That’s why I bought it.
It is about hope,
and also about the mind,
about laughing at,
but not making an enemy
of the latter.
I say that’s what it is about,
but I don’t know for sure,
only what the dust jacket blurb says.
I can’t seem to get by the introduction,
not in my room, nor outside,
heck, not even at the library,
even though it’s open again.
My core seems obdurate in
its resistance to change, or growth.
I will say that, pages unread,
that book seems still to be
having an impact.
I think about hope all the time.
A good thing, since
I have forever friends who
will not see year’s end.
In the greater scheme of things,
I’m a mighty small fish in
a very big pond, or, at most,
like one of those salmon,
returning to their place of creation,
encountering resistance at every turn.
I hope this hope thing is not overrated.
The book is heavy,
the thoughts too,
sometimes.
When I want to have
a happy ending, I don’t
stop until it’s mine.
Writing each morning,
the narration of my life.
No one else’s, mine.
I’m mostly at peace
with my past. Present moment,
wonderful moment.
It is helpful to
regularly regard my true
spiritual self.
It is possible
to become even younger
at a ripe old age.
Even in elderness,
I might be more be-coming.
I really like this.
The wonders of life
always are available,
ever around me.
Space is limitless.
So too are my hopes and dreams,
even at this age.
Not concerned as much
with my lifespan, more in tune
now with my healthspan.
Between who I’ve been
and who I’m still becoming,
there’s still work to do.
My needs:
Something to do.
Someone to love.
Something to look forward to.
A thankful heart
gives birth
to at least
a thousand
beneficial joys.
I accept
that every experience
is one which
I must need.
I don't fear
negative thoughts.
I also don't
ask them in
for coffee.
I thought I’d
used up all my luck
in Vietnam, but I was
so wrong.
Just look at her.
True love might be
a lottery, but
I’m so happy she took
a chance on me.
I often stare in the dark,
while she sleeps, amazed
at how lucky I am.
Still, it’s no accident,
no stroke of luck,
not even from the start,
after she took my name,
but not before
I stole her heart.
I am not living
the life I imagined.
This one is far better.
I’m on a path which
I never anticipated.
It’s pretty cool.
I try my utmost to
show my spiritual self
as harmlessly as I can,
yet I feel the need sometimes
to do more than my best.
One of those times is now.
Still, I'm happiest,
when I bring
everything I have.
Each time I act
with kindness the universe
changes for the better, and
when I wish to find
reasons for gratitude,
it’s not too difficult.
I need God’s Love.
God needs my hands and feet.
Seems like a good deal to me.
Such a huge difference:
discussing Spirit and experiencing It.
Every day
I have the chance
to be happy,
to enjoy this life I chose.
No one but me is
in charge of my happiness,
and I am laughing out loud.
Hah!
Ultimately, there is no choice, not really.
Well, maybe a choice - between weddings -
the big, emotional first one at halftime of
the Packer game, in front of family,
in the family home, with Alice the springer mix
as flower girl, or
the second one, fifteen years later, making her
a June Bride at last.
I think it has to be number two.
After all, we knew what we were getting,
after fourteen wonderful years of marriage.
(no, my math’s ok, and that’s a pretty good percentage)
Our wedding redux was due to
A very orthodox Orthodox priest,
who refused to acknowledge
our matrimony as legitimate, leaving us
in not good standing in the church.
Our monthly membership dues, however,
were always in good stead, all checks cashed.
So be it.
I won’t bore you with the details,
nor about the counseling sessions,
(after fifteen years!),
or about how he said we’d have a child
even though I was fixed,
and then we did, in an odd manner.
I’ll save that for another prompt.
Cherishing her became
the source of my happiness,
holding her love close,
not wanting it to fade,
like a perfect Spring day,
sometimes still, always glorious.
I love her sense of style,
lifting me up
from blandness.
I love that she loves,
me and most living things.
I love that we can be together
for hours and not talk.
So they told me, trying to be kind,
that my mother, who I’d just seen die,
was in a better place now,
not seeing the pain of a youngster’s mind.
I use that memory to this day,
speaking to children, always with truth,
often while kneeling, eye to eye,
knowing they’ll grasp what I have to say.
So when a neighbor’s kiddo, smart and tough,
asked me around the pool about my scars,
where’d I get them, did they hurt,
I thought the truth would be enough.
Mom was embarrassed, let it show,
but I waved her off, kept explaining,
until the kiddo saw my memories flowing,
said thanks, that’s more than I need to know.
What a wonderful day it had been.
I sat with a few newfound friends,
an accidental meeting between us,
the non-painters on the tour,
way, way, way high up
in a small Tuscan village,
in a tiny home-made-restaurant.
Bel canto music purred
In hidden speakers.
The dishes looked like canvasses.
peasant food made fabulous.
I wasn’t hungry, so I passed.
I wasn’t thirsty, either,
but I drank the wine.
We talked,
then we walked,
and talked some more,
about nothing, mostly.
I bought a small painting
from a small studio,
for a small number of Euros.
It hangs now in a small corner of our home,
and in a big part of my memory.
We rode down
to our Montecatini hotel
in a bright red funicular
and never once thought
to sing Volare.
What a wonderful day it had been.
Living mindfully
in political bedlam,
peace is a challenge.
Perhaps join others.
living with an open heart,
easing into peace.
Life’s options await,
full of comradeship and joy,
filled with blissful peace.
At all times, choose life,
choose friends and love and sharing.
Most of all, choose peace.
