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 Dec 2016 George Krokos
S M Chen
A clumsy musician named June
Would trip several times before noon.
     A myopic conductor
     Tried to abduct her,
Mistaking her fall for a swoon.
Hair be raven, golden,  russet,
And eyes be ebony, green or blue,
Lips be red dipped in wine,
Skin almond or a rosy hue.

Hands be frail, creased with lines,
Soles worn with cracked feet,
Spine bent a storm wrecked tree,
But a voice melodic sweet.

Waves wash in ****** waters,
Forests make a leafy throne ,
Petals make a crown of blossoms,
Mountains  mould a stone.

In the eyes dance reflections,
A mirror of what I can see,
You say I am not a stranger,
Then pray tell me who I be.

One by one, I drop a layer,
And still I be a whole,
Not this flesh that covers,
Within I am a soul.
Having a positive mind
Will make you happier
Jovial and jubilant
Spread nothing but good cheer
Pick yourself upward
And move towards the light
Keep those feet moving forward
Make your foundation bright
A flight of three crows
added to
a dense grey day

Next add four
iconic conifers
as high as the sky
eternally ******* down

These things are
always in my sight
through my window
on this wet world

Multiply all of this
by a sweet daughter
who makes me proud
and raise the whole
to the power of a strong woman
who carries us all
on her back

The equation produces
a result that I am 95 percent certain
equals happiness
though the confidence interval
is wide

And this result
sweet as it is
and as uncertain as it is
will outlive me
leave a faint echo in time
an echo that will bounce off a star
and finally be found
gripped in my shriveled paw
long after the epiphany
nowhere near paradise
somewhere short of
the end of the line

This is a moment of happiness
stolen from time
hijacked by a fugitive
from civil society

I'll hold it close
until death pries it
without mercy
from my hand

Leaves it as a blessing
and a curse
for all who come after

Take the blessing.
Leave the curse.
That's the advice I give
with my dying breath.
And I leave this to you
from the generosity
of my heart.
With a nod to
the scant traces
of God's grace
that I find on these pathways
of travail.

Never lost.
Never found.
Always present
and generous
to all.

Be that.
I write from Western Oregon in a year that is wet even by Oregon standards.
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