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.

My Friend is Gone

 

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.

Open

 

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.

Express

 

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.

Who Can Tell

 

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.