It’s just too late
foes on the verge of a trounce
fate is surely defeat.
Is there one more ounce
of hope, of effort
one more cup of fire in the whole
to eek out a victory?

It’s too late
to turn back now
you’re too far gone
your past hangs on your ankles
like rusty chains
the ruts in your road too deep
to swerve
to curve
off and out onto smooth.

Besides, you’re too old,
too set in your ways
to change now.
It’s too late baby
It’s too late.
When you were two
it happened to you
the stage was set
too bad my boy.

But I take a deep breath
look up
smile at my supposed fate
determined…
now is my moment
to step into brilliance.

It is good to be in this place
in this time
the plants awakening to the light
the soft music
easing into my soul
the candle flickering
the air and me
cool and still
in this now.

Talent shows have judges
who measure the gifts of the contestants
and proclaim who is the best
based on their performance.

We all have gifts given to us
by parents, friends, loved ones, and other teachers,
each of us also being a teacher or gift-giver of sorts
for others and ourselves.

When I judge myself
may I be merciful, wise, and accurate
taking into account
how I became me.

So, now and in the end
may I be the true me
and not a me conjured in my imagination
or a me who became me
by comparing myself to other mes
for in the final analysis
it is all a gift.

A man wants to make his mark on the world
to leave something of himself that will endure.
It is the human thing to do.

For some it is children
for some a book
a dare-devil act
or other feat
that will interrupt the routines
of a father, mother, farmer, pipefitter, or pastor
make them pause and notice
for a moment
or even learn a thing or two.

But I wonder if these small interruptions
in the lives of other mortals
are worth
the sweat, angst, hours, gut wrenching
and immense energy of a life.

The sage’s magenta petals fall in the heat of the afternoon
and no man, woman or child notices
but bees lit there and ****** a little life
from the blossoms’ hearts.

Maybe I should be content to bloom
for a few days in summer
then fall away
to the earth
the love
from whence I came.

As she lay there, her face pale, almost ashen
tears flowing,
in her gravelly voice
she said how horrible she felt
about a life so full of mistakes and selfishness
for giving her sister a hard time
being crabby and so critical to her boss
who was also her friend.

She looked into my eyes
regret dripping in every wrinkle
of her rugged face
and she began sobbing.

I cried with her
squeezed her left hand
felt the burden of my own regrets
for the ruts and rocks I had left
in the path of my past.

And I told her she was a different person now
I reminded her that the amends made to me and so many
later in her life were a testament
to a soul redeemed
and now in glory.

She smiled wistfully,
closed her eyes,
and drifted on her tears
into eternity.

I awaken in darkness
still terrified and running
from the mountain lion.

But what if I’m the prey
of my own judging
captive of my comparisons?
At times I feel those verdicts in my gut
like when I can’t concentrate on a task
I SHOULD be doing.

When I notice my tight gut
and my mind wanting to flee
I can stop trying
and lying to myself
set my imagination free
roam a wilderness I choose
like right here on the flat and fertile plains
of this poem’s lines.

Contemplation is like fishing.
Often my reason fails me
and I cast out into the waters
hoping I can catch that vital energy
feel its power, its resistance, its strength
that is elusive
but I know is there
and those moments of connection
with that mysterious force
give me energy.
I am alive
so I keep castings into the ocean
knowing the elan is there,
the verve that takes me from my mind
to dance, to move, to swerve
in that moment of now.

Author’s Note: I bow in gratitude to Brian McLaren and Barbara A. Holmes for their wisdom that inspired this poem and kneel in awe and thanksgiving to all the fish I have caught over the years, for the excitement and nourishment – the life they gave me.