Correspondence

Intentions

Telling stories can be healing,

listening to them as well.

No poem is accidental, for me.

Every poem I write

needed to be written, by me.

They are the stories of my passage.

Poems are where my life

goes to be remembered,

where I recall the love 

which surrounds me, 

also where I accept being slighted,

forgotten, disliked,

where I accept insults and injuries,

and how I strive to be gentle, helpful,

even under provocation.

Every poem I write is

a battle to reveal myself,

it being so difficult to reach

into the realm of silent tears.

Every poem, at its beginning,

is a mystery to unravel.

Every poem, at its conclusion,

is a mission accomplished.

Little Things

Little Did I Know

the joy that might arrive

as I took steps to stay alive,

finding hope in our monthly drive

to that place where I knew I’d thrive,

trusting science as much as love,

knowing the two work hand in glove,

both parts of the Spiritual Truth of

a Divine download from above,

with treatments all first-rate,

only assurance need I create,

keeping my mind in solid state,

and I’d say, so far, so great.

Reasons

Not to Overthink It, But

Your head gives you reasons,

your heart is your guide,

positive choices

within you reside.

Know yourself,

follow your heart,

but don’t just sit there,

we each play a part.

Not the reason to do so,

no purpose, and yet,

the more that you give,

the more that you get.

I’ve never believed,

at least not so far,

all things happen for a reason,

no, some things just are.

When I can't figure out why,

it’s not something tragic.

If I don’t know why something works,

I assume, simply magic,

like calling a friend,

just being there,

a simple act of kindness,

a heaven sent prayer.

Anticipation

Anticipation 

Approaching sunset now, the dawn

too many years behind. The night 

waits, lingering behind the evening star.

It was noon a mere while ago,

brightly shining with hope,

plans made with future surety,

more time than dreams to fill it.

Time spent seems but trumpery

when placed beside time remaining,

too much wastage, squandered

could haves, elusive promises.

Five or seven friends yet remain, 

a thousand cronies gone the way of fumes, 

still time for eight or nine, likely no more.

Poems have always seemed like 

words in flight, now more earthly,

too often murky, poets in high dudgeon,

even as they confuse sunset for the dawn.

Still, there’s work to do.

Also time to do it.

Living in the past yields little that is good,

mostly excuses, redrafted memories and

rust-pitted trophies. 

Future has a sense of promise, of mission,

though too many maybe’s as well. 

What’s left is now, 

today, this moment, as the sun sets, 

dawn and dark of night 

the same gift of opportunity, 

like a poem, 

somewhere between a dream and a nightmare.

California Dreams

California Dreams 

Here I am, 

in California,

at 74.

Mister Rogers died

in Pennsylvania,

just 74.

Natural causes they said.

(complicated by cancer)

Not sure where I’ll be 

at 75.

Not sure if I’ll be.

(complicated by who knows)

Pretty sure I’ll be right here, but

man plans, God laughs,

No matter who I am.

No matter how I am.

No matter where I am.

The Art of Peace

The Art of Peace

Peace on earth, yes, but first start 

with peace in your mind, in your heart.

Even as you function as compassion in motion,

thinking you’re but a drop of water in an ocean, 

be strong, confident, at ease,

knowing the battle’s won, wage peace.

With peace, like love, normal rules don’t apply.

Laugh at rejections, false failures. They lie.

Just do your best, be present, show up,

you’ll soon measure the Good in your loving cup.

Peace abides, choose hope, open your heart,

see the Good in everyone, it’s your best start.

Capital F Friends

Capital F Friends

I can’t imagine life without friends,

absent them, there would be no me,

alone, my profile would be nothing to see.

Much of me reflects them, I’m sure,

solo, I might go on, but in no way as pure.

Fabulous friends sharing values,

and interests, really close, true.

We screen movies, talk books,

write poems, compare cooks,

paint and eat lunch, 

split the bill when it’s paid.

With some of them, I’ve even

marched with pride in parades.

Too many friends are gone now, 

some dead, others simply away.

There’s one monk in an abbey,

whose courage I envy,

and I mention her often,

usually once every day.

Lovely neighbors, tossing newspapers I forget, 

yet they don’t visit uninvited, at least not yet.

My friends back east are very clear

about what matters, what is dear;

it’s family, and friends who matter most,

kept close at hand, in hearts, so near.

I have old friends who will not see 

this year’s end. Sad, but how it must be.

I’ll grieve a little, but then I’ll smile,

glad we were friends for such a long while.

Memories fade, I know this is true,

yet friends stay in focus and

I’m so glad I’ve had a few.