Villainy

 Intention

Clearly, evil is real

in the world,

tangible enough

to do battle

with love and light

and good.

Like invisible ink,

it is present nonetheless,

reaching inside,

warming and shaping.

I can read the ink,

and still, I seek a

non-anxious presence

in this anxious world,

even a healing,

trying to remove

the trying, with

effortless effort.

Aware of the fear,

sensing the doubt,

feeling the frustration,

reading thoughts of hopelessness,

it remains a worthy goal,

finding the courage to

drop the supposed safety that 

we think we created,

to put away the armor,

become softer and more vulnerable,

open to love and light,

seeking the Good more than resisting evil.

Changes

 Today we can write about “change” and/or “no change”. I decided to skip talking about the change I found in the sofa and write this.

Transformation 

Lightworkers are sacred.

They offered, before birth,

to save the planet.

They know that

outside change is nice,

but inner change might be a 

better starting place.

Intellectual shift alone isn’t enough. 

What’s needed is a change of the heart.

There’s so much need for Good,

for helping selflessly.

What a waste of energy

to leave the high road for the low.

Things change, power passes.

What a waste of time

to place one’s name on high.

An introduction poem

 May I Introduce Myself

Sometimes a poet,

daily a cook,

often a gardener,

never aware of my look.

I’m a pretty small fish

in a very large station,

as busy as salmon,

returning to my creation.

I am no longer making a living,

simply polishing a life,

with the aid and abetting of

a spectacular wife.

Getting quite older now,

the age of giving away stuff,

satisfied I’m not perfect,

but just good enough.

When I might think I have mastery,

I try telling my cat what to do.

That straightens me out quickly.

Now, tell me about you.

Takeoff on another poet

 Patients

(From “Patience” by Kay Ryan, 1999)

Sitting among friends

I have never met,

nor am likely to meet again,

resting in a reclining chair

I wish I had at home,

but not for it’s intended use.

Being seen to with loving care,

skillfully, smilingly, ably applied,

with the modesty experience brings,

in the fullness of dedication

from true earth angels.

A nestling needle,

like a diamond in its hardness,

plugged easily into a vein,

pushing curative chemicals

into the red rivers of my body.

It’s expensive, that chemistry,

prohibitive for some I would guess,

but not for me, grateful 

for a younger life of work,

begetting a later life of insurance.

Who would have thought,

at a younger age,

a body could be made sustainable,

even as it carried disease,

(though not dis-ease)

cured by something otherwise 

so dangerous,

allowing one to envision 

a happy, healthy, lengthy life.

Grateful for this day

 Today’s Pleasures

It’s not a time for rueful analysis,

of what went wrong yesterday,

of what might happen tomorrow.

The cold mornings of winter 

are slowly leaving us now,

even as summer remains in her big sleep,

a few months away from her big entrance.

This is spring, and she’s very young,

slowly blossoming like the trees,

cactus flowers still weeks away.

Yet, there is much to be joyful about,

and, satisfied, we might capture 

bits of today’s breezy brilliance,

enlivened by the simple pleasure of it all.

The snow still on the mountain tops,

the ocean beaches lightly populated,

newly vaccinated neighbors venturing out,

the young mostly happy to return to school,

the lack of daily noise from the East.

We can check our pulse, appreciate our heart,

check our mirror, give it a thankful smile,

grateful for this good day, today.

Plantings

 Heavenly Earth

At 77, he’s feeling,

free to plant

whatever he desires,

free to create a world

he’ll not see mature,

free to be the all-father

of his environment,

free to be the seeds, the mulch,

the water, sun and shade,

even as he knows he’ll miss

the ultimate harvest, 

still pruning and weeding,

still talking to his seedlings,

thinking of Saint Francis, who,

when asked what he might do

if he knew it was his last day of life, said

he’d finish raking the garden.

Breakfast

 Breakfast

Sitting quietly in the living room,

sipping my morning coffee,

deciding between poetry and

the Times crossword.

Suddenly a loud thump,

from the kitchen,

all too familiar.

It can only mean one thing:

a broken window or

a broken neck.

A quick dash and glance,

no shattered glass.

A slanted peek at the patio,

no broken bird.

No birds at the feeder,

and none on the fence

Well, one, a cooper’s hawk,

a big one, smiling that smile

through its eyes.

Missed that one, 

it seems to say.

Next time.

Oh, and thanks for the feeders,

it blinks.

I’m always hungry.