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cooperate. . .
Step out.
Fresh air,
errands of need
to go about.
Follow not just what
grown ups say to do
to groups of girls
in troops of scouts.
Break forth!
And seize the gray!
And whatever streaks of blue
should hap to lie
in your eyes’ way,
and leave, for just a moment,
at the side,
by admitted rapid fall of eventide,
any pesky trace that you might have
of paralyzing doubt.
Heave?
Yeah, sometimes,
you gotta heave.
More so
than maybe
you’d like to believe.
But, already,
without any further effort,
notice you already
have.
Yes, have.
Just have.
Notice
how it feels
to have
persons, places, things,
all while the world
its own tune sings,
that you really want to have.
Oh, sure,
there’s also ones
you want or lack,
But when you note
the ones that you don’t,
it’s much more apt
that you can truly benefit,
when some or all of them
do have your back.
And if should be
your feelings
do not all agree,
as in this world
occurs with a certain frequency,
perhaps
just breathe,
and look inside yourself and see
if there is not
some crafty way
that you can benefit
even from that.
Wishing
doesn’t make it so.
But really
wanting,
and someway or other
wistful asking,
sometimes without
an ounce of active hunting,
reveals an opening where your path
and its
for any fleeting moment kiss,
which then gives you
a sporting chance
to step right in
and stride the path
along which that same said
wished-for thing
does go.
Whether
you for sure don’t know
or maybe,
in this dreary weather,
you really just don’t think you do,
how things are,
or which way
they’re meant to go,
try turning
from the “I don’t know,”
toward
the plain
“I wonder,”
for,
the all the echoed
I-don’t-know’s
trap chill and pain,
between places hard and rock,
those twain where lack of movement
limits gain,
and, in the main,,
it is in grandest space of wonder
our life force
retrieves its flow,
and where the answer
gets its chance
to draw its strength
from swirl of sun and air and and soil and rain,
in short order, or at length,
to plant, to pop, to sprout,
and grow.
If your wish
to proffer love
provokes an urge
to make a promise,
Remember this–
love
of any other
or of you
craves, above all, follow-through,
so, if you’d really like to serve,
here and now
or just around the curve,
you’d best search first inside yourself
your intentions there to delve,
and feel the presence of the other
to help you keep it honest.
Solstice. . .
the time the soul
must run its paces,
do its tricks.
The lights,
the sun’s day heights,
the body’s workings
go more low and slow. . .
Sometimes its life
seems as if
it’s got just
one more last breath
that it’s about
straight out to hiss. . .
It’s
on this very darkest day of all
soul’s got most time
to do its thing–
to contemplate,
to face the fears,
of creatures lurking
in the corners,
and grasp
the linger of red anger
that looms
like the upright head of asp
with hood that spreads
to flaunt its width
and bite or spit
its venom in souls’ ears.
The soul
stands bravely,
also strong enough
to hold the grief
the grief of many mourners,
so they contain and maintain
whatever song
they need to sing,
to grow soul’s own
peculiar, innate strength
to raise in every single place
where there were fearful,
angry, grieving ones,
the brave, the patient,
and the joyful,
spawned from such loss
that’s felt profoundly
and at length,
and to go deep
to sense
the keystone issues hid in tissues
to help to loose them and remove them
to free them from their status quo
so let them and soul
from each other
to fly hence. . .
So soul sees clear,
as best to find,
among the ways
from which
it has to choose,
the ones on which to place its bets
for which directions it might take
more apt to win
rather than lose.
To strum,
to hum,
to rest in silence
wait in blues,
or music of whatever cadence,
and grasp the past,
feel the essence of the presence,
and strut forth to breach what is to come.
To feel,
to heal,
to sort what’s fleeting and deceiving
from what is good and lasting,
true and real.
And learn
the proper Source
above all else
to thank and honor,
and to guide
soul’s timeless course.
Because it’s just in league with It
that the soul acts
with its own
most loving, accurate,
life-giving force.
Move
to stimulate,
get in your groove. . .
And soothe. . .
So much
you can,
although
you’ve not set out
to prove a thing–
Just to allow
the solid portion
of your starry self
to stir,
and maybe sweat on brow,
and do its
sundry ordinary things
.
In this,
you cannot goof.
And maybe,
come the quick-set winter eve,
in greater ease and peace
you’ll breathe. . .
and even feel so very good,
you’ll want to climb
up on your roof,
and lift your voice,
a soulful
or a joyful song
to sing.
Blow
to make a sound.
Cover the holes
to make it smooth and sweet
and round.
Tap foot,
keep time,
hold heart and mind
more deep
than worded reason
or its clever rhyme.
Without wry shapes
of face or mouth,
your fingers, breath,
and body held within
the shifting now
allow,
through you,
the Universe to sing. . .
And maybe yet,
you’ll give and get
all that you came here for,
in union grand and circular. . .
And not only
do things that didn’t,
start to click,
but,
what was hid or puzzling
now, like resounding peeling bells
above the fuzzy, cloudy din,
rises and unveils itself
in one melodious ring.
The harmony
to hum,
just one,
a move
in nature’s symphony.
The dissonance
to be just me
in solitude
amid a multitude.
In anger, grief and fear,
a stirred
but most unsavory misery.
The rub–
how to compose
or reconcile
these worlds two
so that they blend
into a larger still
and happier
infinity?
You have been cut.
Yup.
You feel as though you’ve had enough.
No shred of oomph
to think of triumph
and go on,
like one of scruff,
to do the things
you know
could make it better. . .
So instead, where
it has its natural way
itself to heal,
you’d rather stop
and just be stuck,
so as
not to have
to tackle stuff
that’s new to you
(that might be tough).
But,
that way
it sits and chafes
and maybe blisters,
maybe oozes,
maybe festers. . .
‘Tis that way everybody loses,
you, the ones or things
that moved to hurt you,
and the whole wide world together. . .
‘Cuz all that stuff
you came to do
gets lost
almost
as if ’twere turned
to dust,
Just like
might in a war
a stray love letter.
Who’s there to help?
Well, there’s plenty folks
and books upon
yours or somebody’s shelf.
But ’tis you must lead
the cunning, mighty team
to free yourself,
to live and work and play
and be
your dream,
for though your legion imperfections
loom like wolves with teeth that gleam,
come jaw to jaw,
and claw to claw,
none in the world that any ever saw
better than you
to be the one
to be,
by day or night,
in peace or conflict,
day or night,
your own best bester.
The Danforth Anchor 