Sunday, March 18, 2018

The day

Wake up, wake up!  It’s artful day
knocking on your window pane
ready to lay claim to soul
and twist the truth into a lie.

So warm it feels and comfortable
like a much loved cashmere sweater
and we step into the day seemingly well-armed
and yet unprepared for what may befall.

For those who carry night into day
the lies stab the heart with ferocious intent
and sadness sinks down deep, deep, inside
when knowing that soul has no part to play.

So be it; it’s just a gigantic stage play
that keeps both audience and participants
totally wrapped up and enthralled
with the trivial and insignificant.

I watch from the side lines; sometimes I do,
and sometimes distance myself totally
but how hard it is to clap and cheer
those, oh, so many little things.

What purpose life if the meaningful lost
in the total onslaught of those little things
that causes the soul to disappear
and be as if it was not?

Thursday, March 15, 2018


From out the ether they silently come
and drop their wares o’er humankind
not like a rock to stun and knock out
but like the whisper of a gentle breeze.

They return with a smile waiting to be
the recipients of thank you notes
but sadly there is no post today
and no post for many more days.

Undeterred they wait for just that one
who knows the breeze was a miracle
maybe small, maybe large, but indisputable
and finally, finally, the postman knocks.

It’s not that we’re blind; we just don’t see
the breeze that changes what could have been
so how can we thank what cannot be seen
in a world dismissive of miracles?

But, oh, we can feel, we most certainly can
and yet, and yet, we don’t connect dots
or take the time to think it strange
that what could have been now is not.

So write that letter (figuratively)
and don’t let the Postman be unemployed!

Saturday, March 3, 2018


Not behind glass but solid steel
lies the beat of her heart
determined to not ere again
go to another location.

Heart in the past used to dress up
and go out on walk-abouts
but the everyday dirt and grime
like the weight of a brick.

That constriction no happy state
so tears rose up and out
to cleanse, no doubt, God given grace
that needed to be visible.

But closeted so heart now mourns
because it knows, has always known,
that it needs to be dressed up and out
to live up to its potential.

But it thinks of that dirt and grim
and the emotional cleanse of grace
and with sadness looks sometimes
at that unused hat and coat.

Maybe, just maybe, one day again
it will venture into the elements
knowing that tears simply a means
of cleaning what cannot be sullied.