There’s a certain
Thursday thirst
that knows
that Friday is acoming.
Maybe plans
for your weekend
have your joyful, dreaming head a’spin,
or maybe
with this week
near done
you are quite done
(it was that dumb). . .
but either way
weary, cheery
stretch in full your arms
and with that life breath
lingering yawn,
you feel at least some tiny part of you
stirs, rediscovered,
and is on the path
that’s got it back to humming.
I am a peep.
I am a pipe.
I am a megaphone.
I make a sound
that to distant lands resounds.
I make a sight
that starts small and faint
but grows to tall and very bright.
My presence shall be felt
with a graceful sort of ease–
no need to use
my every ounce of might.
The day’s unwound. .
up and about I’ve been,
in sun, in stars, in moon.
The time has come
that I be down
to melt and mingle
with the glowing, glittering
contemporary dark
soon.
Best
not to go hasty
and gulp things whole. . .
No rest. . .
No flow,
when you’re tempted
and think tasty
to scarf stuff down
and attempt like so,
to learn,
get done,
produce,
create,
or nurture,
to help
folks and other sorts
of alive things grow.
In approaching
your each meal or snack,
with help, or alone,
in time, you’ll see
that you grow spine
till you are sure
you can get,
to a degree,
your own prized back,
when you take as mouthful
one small bite,
and give it its due
to mix with its fit saliva elixir,
as with love and care,
you chew.
And, when it comes
to all your dreams and cares,
behooves you
to do this way, too,
in work,
in play,
with friends and lovers,
family, too.
For,
while to swallow whole
may boast a mouth feel
full of prowess, and defiance,
and “I am just who I am”
oozing o’er,
and endowed with broadest power,
You happier and much longer go,
when, to more gradual and gentler ways
you cede,
as you eat, sleep, work and play,
over hours, and over days,
and you’ll come to see
how glad and and sure
you can endure,
if not in every single
microsecond,
then when,
eyes agleam rolled slow
scan horizon’s fiery hue.
while you
stop to breathe, feel, think,
and wiser now,
appraise,
what gifts you’ve got,
and how you still do grow,
at the end
of the very sweetest
day.
The innocent
You pluck that little,
by some deemed beautiful,
but in-your-face,
takes-up-your-eyes
and shrinks your space,
innocent looking
cropped up weed. . .
cruel though it be,
a wonder the space freed in thee,
and legion happy progeny to come
made possible by that one seed.
Here’s a hand
I hold to you. . .
if you pick it up,
I hold your hand,
and you, mine, too.
The fingers
either clasping palms
or interlaced,
and then, eventually, released. . .
but warmth and finger pulse
leave there a trace
of all that’s good and warm
and love, and true.
And when I don’t know what else to do,
although I’ve done it times before,
when chance comes more,
I think I’ll reach out that time, too.
And,
though the question is of hands,
I’ll wear the action if it fits,
just like a shoe.
I am allowing light
to penetrate my eyes.
Birdsong
to clear routes into my ears,
Fresh air
to whisper on my skin
like a lover’s declaration,
a sweet caress to reassure,
a sweep of energy to mesmerize.
Breath
to fill my belly
to its happiest and deepest.
Earth
to rise to meet my feet,
on which I stand resilient, supple,
strong, and straight.
Water
in and around
my every cell to swirl,
for I am the Universe’s daughter,
in a panoply
of dazzling starry, sparkling company,
myself unique, but very commonly
part of the one,
which, when all is said and done,
lets me go my further way
a very happy girl.
Baby steps
so clumsy, wobbly
when you are one,
much less than two,
and walking is completely new,
there’s so much more you have been through
to wiggle, roll, creep, crawl, sit and stand,
by pulling,
holding on with hand.
Your steps thud a bit like lead,
heavy, tripping, falling
on your bottom,
but nerves of steel, you need not,
though you’ve got ’em,
propelled
as if by a happy spell,
of all that you can do and find.
So, understand,
though now much older,
you still form one
of humankind,
and when you’ve something new
or old and scary, difficult to do,
remember that strong and joyful,
fearless, smaller you,
who won’t take stop or no
for any kind of answer,
and,
no sooner than you crawled and stood and walked,
you bounced and twirled to some be-bop,
and had so much fun, you didn’t want to stop–
the tiniest and happiest of dancers.
Life is full of magic
just waiting to be noticed. . .
So,
see it,
seize it,
lift it,
wield it,
Go to sleep,
and there, recall
above reside the stars. . .
Day breaks–
Wake up,
and breathe it. . .
Do each or any
of this stuff
enough,
and even if
you are a nut to crack that’s tough,
eventually, you’ll open
and believe it. . .
for the life of magic there
has always been,
will be,
and now
is ours,
but especially
when we drop
the habit to beware,
and dare
to feel it.
Too much to bear,
too much to think,
too much to feel,
too much to know
just which, if any, of it’s real. . .
too much to do,
too much to grow.
One would suppose,
this is my life–
and although it’s possible
the supernatural
could some helpful blessings interpose,
I’m at the helm.
I don’t know what it is to whelm
but instead
of some bed
where grows
many a rose,
I’m finding life
seems to accrue
a feel of heavy overload
where I’m a creaking, sagging cart
of blustery overwhelm.
Hmmm. . .
Perhaps I’ll choose
a breath or two
right now
to breathe. . .
For I can see,
it’s up to me
to make more airy light
in and of
this very old
toad of a load,
so that
I may now briskly walk
an as yet untrod,
and maybe hard,
but prettier, road,
on whose first step
I start
to live in and become
more what I’ve (maybe always)
had and been,
an unequaled bright
and loving,
mighty realm.
The Danforth Anchor 