‘Be still and know….’
I oblige--
Until
calming words bubble from my own mouth,
Or rather from my mind
Soothing my inner adult,
forcing it to
regress
and relent to the pensive child I am.

Breathe in--
Ah Lord Jesus, come.
Breathe out--
I expel wordless breaths
that are considered thoughts, that are turned into prayers
when strung together in my subconscious
whilst I sit unawares--
Just me and my cat
or perhaps there’s one more
lets make it three, rather,
for God plus me makes four.

I search Google for poetry
I find naught but prayers
Perhaps, then, they’re similar--

Like warm breath and winter air.

Delighted giggles ring in the night
I picture them skipping and racing in front of their parents, so eager.
Mom and Dad will lag behind and chat about what cute thing Susie did on the playground today, and how she cried for an hour because she wanted to start trick or treating early.

Now their plastic pumpkins swing too and fro in their hands; they drop what precious amount of candy they have worked for in the first ten minutes without even noticing their loss, they dash forward while the elders of the parade pick up the wayward treats.

To be young and gleeful again, they think to themselves.

Now endless bills replace endless candy bars and brief cases replace swinging pumpkin baskets, the glitter of innocence long gone from their eyes.
They can no longer afford reckless nights of illuminating bed sheets with flash lights in order to read books after the lights go out; flash lights with names inscribed in puffy-paint give way to harsh desk lamps which show the work left abandoned on the desk at night: Susie needs a bath, work will have to wait.

No longer can they crawl into their siblings’ beds and share secrets about such lovely things like the kitten they secretly feed in the mornings before school, or how Marianne uttered a curse word at home and got a spanking.
The only secrets they share now in the wee hours of the night are of their distresses about how to fix the leaking sink and who will pick Susie up from school tomorrow.

But soon they are snapped back into this crisp night
from their more somber thoughts
by the most beautiful sound in the world:

“Mommy! Daddy! Can I go to the next house?”

Can love contradict?
Can love be wrong?
Wrong in what sense
Can love be a song?
A jam, a tune, a slow song, a beat?
Love had moved my feet.

Will it speak to your heart?
Or is that too cliche?

Will it top off you glass,
‘till it spills on you hands?
Can it drain too quickly?
Does love run out,
like hour glass sands?
Does love leave?
Desert?
Walk out?
Can love abandon us,
like we abandon it?
Can love ever really leave us,
or give us the slip?

Does love roll over,
like unused cell phone minutes?
Or does love start anew when each day is finished?
Does love know time?
Can time sense love?
Is that why loving moments last so long?
Or perhaps they flee,
for time, like love, is objective you see.

Can love be malicious?
Or only be kind?
Does love need glasses because it’s blind?
Should love use a walker when it grows old?
Does love stand tall?
Does it do what it’s told?

Can love be found on a walk in the park?
Can it pop up through sidewalk cracks?
Be painted on a wall?
A canvas?
Is love like art?

Can love be withdrawn?
Taken aback?

Is love a fighter or meek?
Old and wise, or young and weak?
Does love take time or maybe it’s quick?
Go out like a sparkler, or burn long like a wick?
Soft as a pillow, or rough as bark?
Can love be harsh?

Will love always run smooth?
I’ll answer that, no.
But neither can love erode.

Yes, love is a healer and love loves your love.
Love loves you questions, your short comings, simple hugs.

Love is the mother that kneels,
Praying for you.
The father watching fondly,
Over everything you’ll do.
Even if it’s silly or wrong,
He’ll be amused.
But He won’t show it,
He’ll be quiet,
Because God, like love, loves to take His time.

May the road rise to meet you,
may the wind gently nudge
the hair from your eyes
and the weight from your grudge.

We seek to defy it with doctors and creams,
but beg for its mercy during really bad dreams.
We wish it to stop on a perfectly timed kiss,
on a perfect date night that ends with a wish.

This thing makes us wonder,
but mostly makes us wait.
Who thought it up?
Why do we wait?
Are we searching Time’s pockets for a timely response?
Are we waiting for Time to take time for us?
Are we waiting for a wrinkle,
like we wait for the bus?
And what would a wrinkle in time do to us?

……

Can I make up a wrinkle like I whip up a craft?
Does time wrinkle up when we’re looking back?

Or is it only our noses that wrinkle as we doze…. and repose,
thinking of what we’ve done wrong?

Well wrinkle away, my pig-nosed friends,
but time doesn’t care when you’ve gone ‘round the bend.
And time doesn’t flinch when terror grips your heart,
when you wish you could fly,
when a loved one is gone.

Time doesn’t love you,
in fact its quite cruel.
Time, man’s invention, is our own poison jewel.

It drags us to work in rusted out cars.
It ***** up the money from children’s coin jars,

Ashes to ashes and rust to dust,
Time is all knowing,
Or so we’re taught.

Time is our essence,
our incentive to go,
but why should we listen when time tells us no?
Time is imagined.
We made it all up.
Time is of man,
and never of God.

The best times in life are when time disappears,
because time means nothing when your perspective is clear.

The thought
that we may have made the wrong decision
terrifies us,
so we choose to ignore the possible exploration it might take to realize
what the right decision might actually be.

The gray, old statue sits lopsided in my mother’s garden
Twenty four inches high and leaning ever forward in the mud while
enduring the sun
and enjoying the snow or rain
Because she gets the most attention in the weather that depresses humans,
Mortals drawn to her alluring virginity and enduring divinity
Groveling for guidance and searching for silence in less than tranquil gardens on earth.
Mary cries gray tears for America and grey tears for Europe
Because we all fling questions up to her for the same reason.


But we will never realize how small we are until we hit our knees and stare eye to eye,
Instead of
staring,
crestfallen, down at muddy Mary in the garden.