Something New

 

What new opportunities await 

my yes? 

What more do I have 

to offer?

Welcoming newness,

mastering new lessons,

awaiting willingness.

Unambiguous

 

Spirit is always with me,

directing my feelings, and I

know that it leads me

to where I need to be.

My inner voice has never been

ambiguous, rather clear and direct.

The way is obvious and open.

I never hesitate or introspect.

I hear often the sad opinion 

That Spirit no longer talks to us,

that Spirit is not in its dominion,

and  one must be autonomous.

This is not true for me.

Spirit is often guiding my

life and behavior, and I often see

clearly the path, my destiny.

Inventing a Form

 

Memories might fade.

Good friends remain steadfast.

I’m so grateful I have a few.

Everything is impermanent.

Everything, except true ohana.

Hold tight to family.

Giving from my Good,

I find the most happiness,

I experience greatest pleasure.

Some friends give me things.

I see joy in their faces. 

I welcome each gift. 

I joyously give.

I happily receive too.

Circulation rules!

Grace, gratitude and generosity

seem to work 

just fine for me.

I now live the life I choose.

It has friendship and Spirit.

It holds the center.

I breathe in with grace.

I exhale with gratitude.

I find life is just too good.

Homecoming Colors

 

There was a hardy row of bushes 

behind my boyhood home,

annually filled with scented lilacs,

whose colors varied from year to year.

Likely something to do with the pH 

or the changeable Midwest weather.

I mostly liked the light purple ones,

would cut a few for a tall glass, placed

on the yellow formica kitchen table, 

so when my blue-veined, fragile mother 

came home from being on her feet

at our IGA grocery store,

she might smile at the gesture.

Okauchee Lake

 

That lake was everything to us,

bathtub in the summer,

a shortcut to town during winter,

source of food and fun.

Glacier-carved,

darkly deep, muskie wide at one end,

shallow, bluegill small at the other,

a squiggly channel in the middle,

looking like a misshaped dumbbell.

That lake had its mysteries,

ate a human or two every year,

sucked them down into the weeds,

next to the cars it swallowed every spring,

the ones driven on to the ice in March,

at the American Legion ice fishing jamboree.

In late spring, early summer,

before vacationers’ traffic clouded the surface,

you could drift idly,

see the ancient tree stumps below,

wonder what the land was like before the floe.

If you had a motor,

or a young person’s energy,

you could get out to Stumpy Bay,

or to Stone Bank,

where the best fishing was.

You’d see birds of every type,

small crabs near the shore,

could stare at the sky,

see where it joined the water, 

and if you stayed out late enough,

watch that lake swallow the sun,

waiting for the star show,

catching a night bonfire up the hill.

That lake was everything to us,

and I bet, on still days,

it served as a mirror

for God’s morning primp.

There are 10,000 lakes

in the state next door,

even more up north, in Canada,

but we only needed one,

and it made us richer than we knew.

Dawn or Dusk

 

Deep into sunset now, the dawn

too many years behind. 

The dark night waits, 

lingering behind the evening star.

It was noon a mere moment 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.

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,

too many maybe’s as well. 

What’s left is now, today, this moment, 

sunset, dawn and dark of night the same

gift of opportunity, like a poem, somewhere

between a dream and a nightmare.

Life’s Hues

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.