Red flowers open,
Pomegranates in waiting.
We must make sun tea.
Soft light from afar,
the new buds need attention.
Bees remain needed.
Spring’s colors fading,
Summer blooms soon in season.
Seedlings need water.
Pink roses whisper.
Bougainvilleas scream color.
Pastels still enchant.
Epi’s bloom briefly,
cactus flowers much the same.
I must call my Friends.
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.
To gain a friend,
a new someone,
just anyone,
I might accept a favor.
It matters not
what’s the flavor,
whether it I savor.
I’ll just let it be.
Just let it in
and I will see.
It’s so easy
to gain another friend.
The truth always remains
even in a world of lies.
Because the bulb is broken,
does it mean the power dies?
One must open their heart
to the truth, mostly unseen.
One must surrender the drama,
through trust come completely clean.
Something good is about
to happen, open to it and see.
It won’t come loudly, with a shout,
it will simply, suddenly, be.
So, out your doubt,
dissolve it, send it packing.
Seek your healing thought,
see there’s nothing lacking.
Be calm, breathe and realize
that this much is certainly true,
with self-love and open eyes,
you’ve done all that you can do.
Forgiveness is an
ongoing process, not a
simple one and done.
I hear “their” viewpoint
and realize the world is
not just black and white.
While separated,
we remain connected by
one love which never ends.
When I say wrong things,
it’s the next right thing said
which makes me plus or minus.
Today I plan to do my best
to express peace by being it,
in the here and now.
Were I a seed, I’d want
to be hopeful, content in
my life’s purpose ,
grateful for the warmth
of the sun, and of the Son,
appreciative of water,
whatever it’s source,
satisfied to blossom
as ideally as possible,
expressing perfection
for however long I’d live.
Or maybe a bird would
find me, allowing me
an altogether different plan.
Even if our life were a dream,
it would need to be embraced,
but no golden palace, no silver hill,
no white elephant need be chased.
Our life, like our love,
simply is, alive and glowing,
Olympian in its stature,
medal-worthy knowing.
I write seventeens,
unless I am pressed for time.
Then I write long poems.
I have tried faster,
looser, tighter and harder.
Now I try softer.
Hope, faith and courage.
My friends in times of struggle.
Thanks for being there.
I’ve long preferred the
company of women: wise,
determined, and brave.
Today I’m gentle,
with you, others and myself.
I feel nurtured.
Loving myself just
the way I am, gratitude
fulfilling my life.
I like daydreaming,
with my eyes widely open,
open to what comes.
Peace is where I live.
There’s a key under the mat,
lest I forget that.
Often, when I feel
really old, oh so tired,
I just take a nap.
