Sit down–
you and
another human being.
And then,
with them,
start to converse.
Your cards laid down,
risk is,
at last
you will be seen,
for the one you really are,
a unique kind
of living star,
defenses dropped,
which let them see
your special sheen,
or worse. . .
The more you can be genuine,
the much more likely
they’ll respond in kind,
and help you on your road to find
your truly vasty
strength and place
in our great wide Universe.
Transformation happens.
Whether or not
you think
you’re along for the ride.
Get on board,
help shape it.
Are you going to do it now?
The chance is here.
Come on,
decide.
There’s lots of ways,
as you go through
your life and days,
to make a presentation.
You can do it
bone dead dry,
or dripping sweet,
or with almost any other
strained or calm
interpretation.
Well,
you can choose
to put on airs,
to sink real low,
to pierce
with threatening, penetrating glares,
or some other way
to sway–
You can flirt. . .
or be direct. . .
you can be long. . .
you can be terse. . .
or you could choose
the sundry issues of the day
well to address–
or else,
to skirt. . .
You can don
Goth, prep or drab,
modest, posh,
or vamp or bling,
You could appear,
in fact
wearing, carrying
using, too, as props,
near absolutely anything. . .
You could smile,
you could cry,
you could wear shades
to hide your eyes,
you could enter
and take center stage
the usual way,
or sudden, burst upon the scene,
at lightning pace,
in undreamed ways that must surprise,
Once there,
you can choose
a stilted, zip-closed pose,
or flare your nostrils,
purse your lips,
or dance or sing. . .
But one day, then,
you stop to think,
“Which
of all these tricks
works best?”. . .
You go and stare
into the glass,
and take some time
to see
what’s really there. . .
At last, you ask,
“What is the very hardest thing?”
The answer comes,
shines clear and bright–
it strikes you
as a little frightening:
“The hardest is,
PUT ON YOURSELF.”–
Sans feathered hat,
sans stole,
sans any hint
of cleverness,
nor of deft craft
to play a role
In lieu,
what you can do:
allow
from deep inside you
your soul,
your spirit
up to well,
Where all
who come from near,
or far,
can feel your warmth,
detect the glimmer in your eye,
and breath a whiff
of your pure essence,
revel in your trademark effervescence,
And, enjoy you, or not,
just as they will–
but, no matter–
all of them
a little stretch with you
will well have lived
an honest tale,
which, afterwards,
they, in their own
specific way,
can tell.
So,
tell yours now–
just as you are,
just like it is–
And then,
you’re surely know, somehow,
that was the very
laid-bare best
of everything
you had to give.
Add it up,
and count it all–
if you’ve been leaving any out,
just stop!
It is not right
you cast what’s plentiful and beautiful
and colorful and light
as nothing but
a dark ink blot.
Yes, count it ALL,
the useful things you’ve done,
the helpful thoughts you’ve thought,
and even stupid stuff
some of which you do still do,
for it’s thought/feeling fodder
whence you still may learn,
and hence avert
such crude boo-boos. . .
Quit crying,
auto-vilifying,
dissing the wonder
that is you–
To keep doing so
would just be rot. . .
Why slouch so low,
when you can stand quite tall?
For, truly,
it is absolutely all
already there,
right in your life
and your deep core,
Please know,
despite the messages
you hear
that say
“Fixate on everything
that you have not,”
that, in fact,
exactly what it takes
to make the life
you’re made to make
is exactly all the stuff
you have already got.
All life springs up
out of the earth. . .
So, if you want
what’s good and true,
you’re going to have to
go there first. . .
Well, yes,
earth’s plum full
of slither,
and sneaky, creepy, crawly things,
and when you get yourself
outside and thither,
to play and tinker ’round in it
you’ll pick up
plenty earthy dirt. . .
But, grab it,
shape it,
though there’s no doubt
you will get dirty,
Love it deeply
and lightheartedly
(it likes and treats you
very well,
when you get
a little flirty),
Play with it
until you’ve raised
and helped grow up
the brightest, precious
things and beings
you most want. . .
And yes,
you can’t help
but make a mess,
in this sweet
and vital process. . .
But,
you’ll be deeply satisfied,
as you take time,
kick back, and sigh–
and marvel how
all that you reaped
cost so much less
than what it’s worth.
If you feel
you can’t get off the ground,
recall
that you are not a bird,
and you’re just where
your strength is found.
Once you’re at home
and planted there,
you may one day
succeed to bound
quite far and high. . .
and if the winds are at your back,
perchance, even to fly. . .
When the task
is true and tall,
do your asks,
give it your all.
Then,
when time comes
that you
have nothing left,
take a break–
get yourself a little rest.
And if that falls short
to give sufficient
strength and breath,
to allow you
to plod still forth,
perhaps you’d best
surrender to
slumber’s sweet
and mighty call.
Street repair. . .
It takes an awful lot of noise
to fix
the cracks and pits
the chips and nicks,
and what all else
they’re digging for
all too nearby,
out there.
Drills’ shrill pounding,
deep resounding,
hits me like
a ton of bricks,
may not break bones
like stones and sticks,
but does wear nerves
quite ragged bare.
Some place
in life,
I pray,
will bring
some backwards funnels,
shown up like lights
at ends of tunnels,
or needed strikes of lightning,
allowing me
then to foresee
how will come,
once on the other side and free,
deep, lasting quiet,
breath and peace,
through me,
and through all fellow life,
in realms
of water, earth and air.
Life
you cannot put your finger on it. . .
But even if
you really could,
you couldn’t really
hold it there,
out of time,
on a wing,
up high mid-air. . .
And yet,
somehow,
you know it’s there. . .
in wind of flute,
in plucked harp string,
or
hearing, feeling in cohorts
with an orchestra,
blaring jazzy swingey horns,
or with one
of somewhat different sort,
caught in the act
of symphony-ing.
Much as
a wasp-waist glass’s
falling sand,
sometimes you feel
life slips away,
now quick-sand-quick
and, now, slow, slow
much like molasses,
to leave you lonely,
your world
with one less
friend and holding hand. . .
You look and see life,
see it grow
deep secret
hid in the center
of a purple
morning glory,
when gently kissed
and glistening,
wet with
one young new day’s
beads of dew,
or dry, at night,
its glory closed,
sleeping,
lit by moonbeam’s glow. . .
You see it
in the hue-filled,
rough brush strokes
and plenty other
forms of other art. . .
You see it in
your moments
of stupidity,
and in the times
you are most smart. . .
You don’t see clear
to your life’s end,
and don’t remember
how it was
back at your start. . .
But, it’s key
to know
you are alive. . .
and if you ever
should doubt that,
at any point
along your path,
think on
what and whom you’ve lost
along the way–
and cry. . .
and on
how you’re glad
you had them then,
good times,
and funny things they used to do. . .
though you can’t always say
exactly why. . .
Then let a smile
wave through
and over you,
and let out
a happy belly laugh.
MISERICORDIA
Posted on May 19, 2017 by elainedanforth
Misericordia–
Sun shines now
here in this lovely spot
in California.
Much of warm light
it seems I see–
perhaps a sign
I’ve taken few steps
to malign
the precious layer
each of my eyes does bear,
which technically
is called the cornea.
But
somewhere in my heart there aches
big doubt
that I have what it takes
to traverse
current parching air
and sun that bakes,
and I’d not have foreseen
this turn,
so now must glean
whatever ’tis
I next must learn. . .
For life,
it seems,
just does not come
with booklet of instructions
that, of all obstacles
and obstructions,
in advance
could fully warn ya’.
So, lacking that,
I guess I’ll pray,
on this and
other kindred days,
that insight may soon
kindly come
on which next step
goes my best way. . .
And I will wish the same to you,
that clarity
and sturdy will,
which put you on the route that you’ll stick to,
shall meet with you along your way
either
little bit by bit,
or
with one overwhelming wind
that gladly comes to storm ya’
The Danforth Anchor 