Take your little hand,
bedecked with
warming
or with ornamental, dressy
glove,
or simply bare,
as at your birth,
with its complement of palm and fingers. . .
and reach,
with one therefrom
to softly,
soft as can be,
touch
some other one
who craves and needs
the very kind of touch you have
with which to touch. . .
And,
in the knowing
you’ve done thus,
the touch that you feel
in that very, self-same act,
you will feel
so deep and sweet,
that naught there is
compares to it,
as such.
The heat
inside. . .
the windows ope. . .
the dark,
the faintest draft,
the fat and waxing moon
that looms. . .
the crickets
gentle plenty chirping song—
ALL RIGHT! All right!- it’s beautiful–
and not so very “warm” as ’twas,
but after days
of heavy, record heat and sweat
and flattening,
I sure do hope
some truly cooler time
is coming soon.
Monday survived. . .
Well almost. . .
a thing or two yet to do
before my eventual,
and I hope inevitable,
into-bed dive
or fall
or sink.
Oh, would that there were,
a smooth, shiny key
to unwind,
to leave
this pleasant
but too busy, too weary
day behind,
and allow me to tick
like a steadfast clock
into a deep
and dreamy sleep,
from which,
past ample hours,
I may awake,
after someone, thing, or other
has been so kind,
while I’ve turned off my mind,
my small, roving soul
to befriend and tend,
and on my behalf,
lovingly to keep.
Your blood shed
means blood was flowing through your veins
come
cut
or
one more moon lit round. . .
life ebbs, life flows. . .
breath enters
now through mouth,
and now through nose,
to reach from hairs on head
to very tips of seeming distant,
funny, nimble, wiggle-able,
sundry sized,
and shaped toes.
At such times,
the reach
of blood red
and breath deep
need not
shock,
nor much
to drain,
nor even
come as much surprise,
and indeed,
it’s there to clean
and render fresh
this being
there,
whom
you may see and feel but little,
reminding you
that
that said being,
which, as known to others,
is oft called “you”
is both strong and fluid,
and doubtlessly alive.
Elated
I could be,
this day so sunny. . .
were I not
this deflated . . .
But,
of fresh air,
a little breath,
and,
of sleep, a wink
plus a slake of
simple rest,
are apt to make things better,
if not quite
my very best. . .
But, anyway,
what would that be?—
My best?
Who can say?
But,
no matter what the outer circumstance
some quiet inner pondering
can conjure up the thoughts of
what’s good
or what’s not wrong,
in this right-now millisecond,
however long
that is,
and with those thoughts,
back brought
in each living millisecond
where they might have been forgot
or lost,
I will smile a happy smile
and truly feel
and know
that I am blessed.
Shout out?
To teachers?
Perhaps a bad plan. . .
you know, the types
who tell you,
that before you even talk
to answer or ask,
or say anything at all,
you should raise your hand. . .
And to speak in a shout?
Well, perhaps they would say
I should not and may not,
even though
’twere then and ’twere now
quite clear that I could,
and quite clear
that I can.
But, really, for them and for me,
I think it’s worth more than a whisper,
although a whisper
can sometimes muster
the best of emotion,
and sincerity,
“ALL YOU TEACHERS!” quoth me,
all the ones I have now,
in addition to the many
I’ve had, since I was tiny,
who taught me
and led me
and guided
and held my hand,
or had my back
to mitigate the inevitable
mishaps
when I stumbled
and/or slip-slided,
I WANT YOU TO KNOW
that, in a very special place in my head
and my heart,
I SHALL ALWAYS REMEMBER YOU
and THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING
that by you,
and by grace,
I’ve so far become,
and am still becoming,
which, in my best moments,
has my whole body and soul
from the crown to the toe top full,
along with perhaps a small sliver of the world,
happily purring and humming.
Saturday?
Stress released?
Plum gone away?
Perhaps not yet. . .
But,
if I choose well
with my time and verve
just which way to lay my bets,
with all this
summer sun and warmth
blue sky,
and
air quite fresh,
a bit good company,
and ample place
to breathe
and move,
and plan,
work and play some,
take food,
drink water,
and
stand still, or sit
or lay me down
for ample rest,
I just might
stand a fair good chance
to let go,
and for a time,
perchance forget
at least a nice big chunk
of all this
time-honored,
week-built stress.
Setting sail
is quite the sort of task
that,
of an entrenched,
lifelong land creature
is a bit much to ask. . .
To step toward
and attempt
to journey forward
on something else
than solid ground
may feel, at first,
unnatural
and of high risk, , ,
And yet,
there’s something
that still draws one there–
the sky, the sun,
the moon, the clouds,
the warm, the cool,
the movement of the air–
now slow, then brisk–
and distance
that spans and circles
wider, broader, deeper,
than any on land,
you’d chance to tread. . .
And, for the vast
and fearsome magnitude
of blue waters spread before you,
your early instinct
might well be
to breach it with
a giant ship,
sturdy, heavy,
steady, even keeled,
to feel protected,
fortified
and sequestered
from the sea, the weather,
and the nature,
high and wide. . .
Or,
you could choose to sit
and feel and think
a little longer,
and, instead pick
to switch things up a bit,
and sail with something
rather smaller,
which you can’t pack nearly
so full,
but with which you’ll really
feel it all–
the weather, wind, and waves,
and instinctively respond,
adjusting at each
micro-moment
to each element,
and also to the whole of it,
Whatever fear you boarded with,
or sadness, anger
lurking in some corner
deep in you,
has a chance,
as your sea legs
and feet
learn the sea
as they command,
grip,
and are servant to
your little schooner
or your ship,
it has a chance to
shift and morph
and maybe even
through your breath
or through your pores
to exit you,
release,
and dissipate
through kindest entropy
or to their more proper
owners go.
And that’s a possibility,
that while ashore,
or on some great big
fortress of a ship,
might well have never come to pass,
nor brought you
a fresh realm of possibility,
which opens up
when you surrender
to a less defended
but much freer
kind of flow.
Flowers of yesteryear.
Precious they are,
though long ago wilted,
dead and gone.
Like the brilliance of the circling
moon at night,
or the shimmer of a distant star,
they have not jilted
those of us who still remain,
nor have they really left us
wholly without them,
nor alone.
[~Dedicated to a woman
who loved flowers,
her whole life long].
Brethren, Sistren,
A little Thursday tipping of my hat to you!
Thinking of you thriving,
Thistles strength and beauty
Threaded through the heart and soul
and inmost gut of you. . .
and wishing that
the “them and us”
is put to rest
at least one thin slice at a time,
with each
in and out move
of our precious breath.
The Danforth Anchor 