Bury the Chains

I would leave the past behind

were it not so pleasant

a place to dwell,

listening to the echoes,

consulting memories.

I can’t wait to see

what’s coming next,

but some recollections,

like that first chocolate pudding,

are too good to discard.

I’ve dropped out of

the axiom world,

did so after I realized

one well-chosen word is

worth a thousand photos.

I’ve left behind regrets,

long ago coming to grips

with my imperfections.

I’ve lost the need for more,

savoring what I have,

and I found the secret to happiness 

(making someone else happy;

pass it on).

I don’t always succeed,

but I know it’s wise to bury

both past and future,

enjoy the now.

Like in a faulty haiku I once attempted:

Tomorrow will not change me,

fall has come,

winter’s close behind.

Speechless

Nobody knows what to say,

not really, at the moment 

of another’s loss.

We all try, come up dry

more so than not,

nothing equal to the pain,

saying the same things over

and over again:

a better place, they’re at rest, a life

well-lived, in His hands,

it was their time…indeed.

We’d like to tie a ribbon on it all,

but some boxes don’t come with bows.

all lives do not get closure,

to try to find a label for it all

is simply foolish, regardless

of our good intentions.

It is nature’s way

to move forward, so it does,

the world simply does not care.

Those no longer of this world

do not care.

Perhaps it’s best to accept fate

as random, be a minimalist,

but a happy one, sincerely

care for the Loved Ones,

but also move ahead,

enjoy life without the fantasy of

too much self-importance.

Swans

There is no one else,

not another soul,

who could have married me

and made me theirs,

lived with me

and remained with me,

loved me so at the start,

and even more later,

a long, long time after

it all began.

She did not need to

stay with me,

and she did.

Heaven on Earth

In the continuum,

from infinite to finite,

to form from light,

from energy to matter,

to human from Divine,

is there a place along the line,

where each begins or ends,

a clue the route portends,

as we blindly drift,

a nexus where we shift?

Perhaps, but it’s unknown,

the heaven we have sewn,

the place we ourselves create,

this thing we call our fate,

where we co-create our place,

between ourselves and God’s grand grace.

Cause In the Matter

 Recalling those early television

sets, the ones with rabbit ears,

remembering how we lived,

far out in the country, with

great communication between

neighbors, but lousy reception

on the TV, so we’d stand

to the side, grab the ears with

one hand and do a strange

little dance sometimes, until

the picture cleared. Sometimes,

it was the only way to watch,

so we’d take turns.

I wonder about that now.

Was there something invisible

flowing through us to the tubes?

Was it the same something

making its way from our

cell phones to our ears today?

I wonder, too, what else our

bodies are channeling, what other

unseen images on the stations

we choose in life., what frequencies

we receive, and send.

Maybe we can still

use that rabbit ears trick to

change programs when we

don’t like what’s on,

switch from doom and gloom

to joy-joy, from hot and heavy

to mellow fellow. Should be

easier now, and I bet someone’s

working on an app for it.

Walt Reminds Me...

Sitting quietly, watching

the hummingbird highway
in our backyard sky,
speed freak avians
zipping and diving,
narrowly avoiding collision,
not so much rivals,
more contestants in the 
labor to survive.

They feed or die, those
tiny-hearted birds, 
twenty beats per second.
Pomegranate blooms 
become their arena,
long beaks dueling for
one flower, until they
spy our four-hole feeder, 
competitors no more.

Sitting quietly, reading
my laptop screen
at a backyard table,
variable speed poets
warping and weaving,
neatly creating their art.
Not so much competitors,
more partners in the
need to express.

They write or fade, those
big-hearted bards, one hundred
April images per hour.
Poetic Asides
becomes their stage,
longing for what’s due
their flowing thoughts, yet
loving each other’s works,
competitors no more.

Feeding Time

 There once were four

birdfeeders in our yard,

two seed, two humming.

After we erected

 a glass fence to

keep the neighborhood

coyote from our

household feline,

said cat became too

fond of birds and

the hummingbirds became

too fond of breaking

their necks on glass

they could not see.

Now, the seed beds are

gone, and the sugar

water is elsewhere,

but all the birds remain,

hoping for a change

of heart and mind.

We see them at

their accustomed

feeding time,

large and small,

colorful and plain,

doves and wrens,

tits and orioles,

and one,

very observant

hawk.