Night sits on my chest
Squeezes poems out of me
And grinds my poor soul

What’s a block to you?

Is it a distance that measures street to street in a city?
Or is it a cube of wood used as a toy?
Perhaps a chunk of material, no discernible or particular shape,
Or defense in sport to prevent offense to move.
It could be housing for the incarcerated, a portion of time,
A section of cheese, or lack of writing ideas.
Half an insult, maybe, paired with head?
Part of an engine, working or dead.
Noun, verb, or adjective, the grammarian in me
Asks today what “block” is to thee.

To all the stopovers
and endings
the delays
and the in between
and the waiting.

I know that it was God's plan
so I will keep still
while pouring all my faith
and trusting God's hands.

I never thought I'd matter
To anyone

Until you
Came along

And changed my perspective
Of the universe

You made me feel
Like I matter

And I'm grateful
For you.

Where You Are

Where you are it may be spring
With all its greening, blooms, and beauty.

Where you are it may be spring
But winter clings with snow, brown grass, gray trees.

Where you are it may be fall
Brilliant hues of red, orange, yellow leaves.

Where you are it may be stressful
News, work, and life awry.

Where you are it may be calm
Despite it all, grounded in peace.

We each respond to where we are
According to what we believe

About the ultimate meaning of life
And about who holds the key.

Would you tolerate it if what I wrote were more prose than poetry?
If what I had on my heart were not flow'ry speech?
Would you allow me to post it, and not take it down,
'twere it not rhyming, free-flowing, nor haiku in the least?

Hello Poetry, you see, has awakened in me a desire to write
what is on my heart.
And it is not always poetic in nature nor thought;
sometimes it just needs to get out of my head and shared
for others to see, whether they agree or disagree, like or dislike,
but I do not belong to another community, just this one.

Would you tolerate it? Short writings of one kind or another?