“Inertia:   (physics) the tendency of a body to maintain its state of rest or uniform motion unless acted upon by an external force, a disposition to remain inactive or inert”

I seem to have a mindless patriotism to this state
as if I must salute its flag
and devote myself to it,
volunteer for service.

Dare I rebel against the state?
Dare I become a traitor?
What if I join the rebel forces of action
join the anarchy of activity?

It is all to easy to stay put
where it is warm and comfortable,
to lay back and just watch.
Oh how I love to watch!
I seem to like being a ******.

I don’t believe that.
I still believe there is a spark in me
urging me onward
spurring me to leap into the stream
to grow and learn and become
to either eat the pie
or step out of its sticky sugary mass.

I choose to rebel
against the state of inertia.

I love to hang out here with you
in this room
where your green bodies
stand up
point to the sky
face the light.
In your soil
my life is renewed
my spirit takes root each day
in your silence
being here a prayer without words.

May I re-learn each morning
to move from my darkness
and face the light with you.

“The moment good taste knows itself, some of its goodness is lost.”
– C.S. Lewis: Surprised by Joy

Socrates said “The unexamined life is not worth living.”
Sartre and his buddies said there is no exit from society
and one must be an authentic self.

I say: self disclosure is a dicey venture
and I comfort myself with an easy excuse
gathered from philosophers and sociologists:
“I cannot be me without sharing who I am.
After all, we ARE social animals.”

But I have discovered
some things -
the most profound moments -
should be left in silence
trusted only to the realms
for sharing them
erodes or erases their power.

Things seem to be falling apart.
Our uncle dying from throat cancer
an old friend going home after a month in the hospital
no more touching or hugging
covering most of our faces in conversation.

All of this darkness
forces change upon me.
I have to work harder at getting you
I have to see you in your eyes
find you in your words and their meaning
since I can’t see your smile or frown.

But I always got just parts of you anyway
you poets in a few words on the page
you friends and kin in your stories.

So now I have to mine you
from smaller bits
see your smile in your eyes
really listen for the pearls in your words.

All of this doesn’t FEEL like a sacred moment
but it is.

I hope, after this painful letting go,
a new me is spit up on the shore
like Jonah after his bout with darkness
in the belly of the whale.

The wind and stream of this day
catch me
whirl me around and around
I wonder if I ‘m being ground down
to become a smother stone
course edges honed into sparkling sand
or will the deep-rooted hidden
sadness
doubt
and fear
replace the wind
with a kind of pitiful persistent darkness
that bedevils and erodes the heart
and swallows the wiggles and joy
of the giggling little boy
still alive inside?

On the other hand

Yet I search
like da Gama, Cortez and Armstrong
like Jesus, Buddha, and Black Elk
yet I hope for  
a kernel
a grain
a glimmer
of the overwhelming
never-ending
reckless love of God.

I hear the soil’s thirst-quenching
in the low rumble of rain on our roof
see it in darkened skies
feel it on cooled skin
bodies refreshed
muscles mellowed
grateful to the Lord of the skies
for easing our drought.

The errant thread in the rug
bothered me for two days
finally I stooped and cut it
but the rug is still wholly a rug.
It is not tile or skin or milk
not cashmere or silk.
I’m glad it’s still a rug.

Finally I can lay on my left side
that fractured rib healing
fell down walking  on the grass
uneven grass but I rejoice
in its grassness.

I’m a walking human mess
still a sinner after all these years
praying, reading the good book,
going to church, hugging
all my fellow sinners.
Elated that still
they are wholly human.

I pretended seventy plus years
I was somehow special
picked to do great things.
But here I am still fractured
but getting better and better
progress my favorite word.

Here in this room growing green
where life leans in every direction
in the morning
in this oxygen rich space
I chase my dreams into the day
without shame and with great affection
I convene with the universe
at my fingertips
and touch even the darkest real
my mind whirls my heart feels
on these lines where the soul
is made whole with the magic of words
in a vigil of grace
here in this small paradise.

In early dawn I watch
the syncopating rhythm
of yellowing elm leaves falling,
wounded by an autumn storm
their drifting seems so gentle
but I slept through the storm
its violence ripping off a limb.
There is no healing of this feud.

I loved that limb and its bird feeder.
Is my small grief wasted
or does it cling to my soul
in tiny measure
to deepen it
like forgiveness after a marital tiff?

My energy ebbs
in this autumn
like the yellow leaves
falling from mother Elm
calling goodbyes
slowly departing for another realm.

If I were to describe my day
narrate my movements
write a poem about the bluebird on the fence,
call out my dead brother’s name,
decide to cook supper tonight,
or speak my feelings of jealousy,
who would listen?

And if before finishing my narrative
I decide it is not worth
anyone pausing to spend
the time or energy
to read or listen,
then how far would I get in my effort
to even write a word,
speak a phrase,
think deeper than a layer of dust,
or feel anything beyond the weight of shame
prompting my doubts?

But if I think
someone MIGHT read or listen,
then  it might be worth the effort.

If I think there is definitely
an audience of One
who cares to stop and really pay attention
then yes
I'll write it.
I'll speak it.

We were both feeling a small joy
at some long-awaited good news
our conversation crept in a soft light
but then you drifted
into your dark valley of anger and angst,
life circumstance
overtaking you like a black cloud
full of rain and lightning.

The momentum of this moment
****** me into your pain
but how could I choose otherwise
and still say I love you?

I stand before the narrow window
and see more clearly more deeply
in this smaller space
than my years with the picture window
and its crowd calling for attention.

I am broken
bent and misshapen
sad and lonely
dark side of the moon
not caught in undercurrents
but submerged in a bog
oxygen depleted.

Oh what a pitiful state
I’m embarrassed by myself
not s’pose to be like this
people need me to be upbeat and bright
not in darkness but in light
good for a laugh or a smile
wanna be with me a while
but this mournful me
like a salty dead sea
they’d rather not
I don’t blame them
I don’t even wanna be with me.

It’s dark outside
thunder storm rolling in
just perfect for my mood
I wanna thunder out loud!
Ridiculous huh?

Ha, oh what a putz!
Writing it all down like this
makes me want to laugh
at this oh so pitiful me.

I feel better already.
And here you are reading this
what a pure beautiful soul you are
obliging me by listening.

Now you can laugh!

Have a good day. 😊

It is a worthy mercy
to take up temporary residence
in another's suffering body
by listening.

I always thought prodigal meant
profligate, dissipated, or debauched -
such unpoetic but robust words.

There’s the story of the prodigal son
the young man who got an early inheritance
from his old father and left home
to spend the wealth
on ******, and sinful living
yet when he returned home broke and broken
his father received him with open arms and tears.

Sadly I can identify with that son
having spent so much
in such a way
over my lifetime.

But a man told me it should be called
the story of the prodigal father,
the daddy whose love for his son
was utterly lavish, reckless, and generous.

Oh, to be a man
with such an extravagant love!

Without all my lovers
I would never enter the realm
of the fully human.

Usually when I open my eyes,
creeping through the blinds a sun rise
brings a thimble of gratitude to my sleepy mind
for yet another day above ground.

But last night
news of flooded darkened homes
faces full of desperation and despair
haunted me
delayed sleep until another morning
was about to dawn.

I turned the lights on
just to make sure.

Now I am awake
and drink
a cup of gratitude.

You were so far down the list
it was hard to find you
buried there among news items
groups begging
ads egging
service notices glaring
poets sharing.

I almost couldn’t find you
my love
and when I did
my phone kept blinking  
notifications
wanting my fixation.

Oh how easy it is to forget you.

My love gets buried…
yet that love is what keeps me awake and alive.
Diving deep into you refreshes my soul
like nothing else.

I was hoping for sun
to brighten my mood
and wake me up this day.

But shades of gray
hang heavy on the horizon
ground wet from last night’s rain.

That’s life.

I remember my days of black and white
easy answers cut and dry, clear and bright
lines dark and sure
with me of refined mind
up on ground moral and high.

But I have become fond of gray
where friends with their faults
and me with mine stay
in love anyway.

Give me lowly, mushy earth
where seeds break open
with verdant birth.

Yes, please give me a day
with shades of gray.

My expectations
are chains
pressing down
hovering wings
keeping me from the sparkle
in you

I am no Freud or native shaman,
experts in dream interpretation,
but the other night I had a dream
of my dear departed daddy.
We were lying on the bed together
and he told me how I had hurt him.
He almost whimpered his disappointment.
This man who was a paragon of strength in my life!
How precious it was to feel his warmth, vulnerability
and humanity in this close encounter.
Even now my eyes grow misty
as I remember the way he was in that dream.

I wonder if in my dreaming
I hugged the Father of the Universe
and felt the frailty of nature
the sadness of it for what we have done to it.

Maybe we need to feel this intimate connection,
this union of our humanness with a powerful love
to grasp the enormity of our responsibility
in this relationship.

There was a man who for all appearances
was living the american dream
fine clothes fancy sleek black car
women at his beck and call
celebrity and media attention
awards and accolades
but he was lost and empty
mostly miserable
weepingly lonely.

And I wondered if such a dream
is really a nightmare
if there is nothing deeper
sounder
loving
beautifully silent
selfless
infinite,
then I do not want that dream.

I’d rather be awake in wonder
in the richness of now
in the arms of my old lover
reading a good book
or asleep at home
under the covers wandering
a bright afternoon
or the shadowy byways
and rocky crags
of the universe.

It is so easy to leave you
to get lost
in the garbage
fix the sink
watch the cowboys and chiefs
cut the grass, rake the leaves
shop for milk and eggs
exercise my arms and legs
take out the trash
pick up the mail
and a thousand other details.

It’s so easy to leave you
to get lost in the garbage
and before I’m through
we’ve drifted apart
and all I had to do
was sit down and start
to look into your eyes
speak from my heart
listen to you
and hang on your words.

Together take a walk
forget the clock
listen and talk
laugh a bit
maybe even cry
just you and I.

And before long
there we are again
we made it
that’s all we had to do
just be
me and you.

Unless I am utterly into you
dwelling in your eyes
every crease in your face
seen the shade of your cheeks
hung out there - all of me
waiting to see all I can see
hear all I can hear
just like a cat - turning my ear
in your direction
leaning to drink in your sound
if I am not knit and bound
to you in body and mind
if I do not smell every flower of you I can find
nor extend and stretch my being
as far as is humanly freeing

then

I have not drunk your nectar,
ingested the juice of your soul
and my self
is not really present
nor fully there
in you my sweetest dear
nor you in me.

I looked up at night
yearning for the stars
but the man made light
eclipsed the ruby hearts of Antares and Mars.

Red and white pairs of light
move slowly up and down the hill
they fill the orbs of my sight
these lamps of electric human will.

I’ve a longing for the universe out there
for the touch of God’s creative hand
there must be a cellular link with each far flare
flung by some eternal plan.

But maybe the light I seek
is not in the sky
or that of which astronomers speak
or something captured by the eye.

But something of the universe within
scarcely noticed in the rush of my days
something beneath my skin
in stillness, silent, but deeply ablaze.

Worldwide they sing of joy
at the birth of that baby boy
but I have to say that this day
I feel as empty as a holey vase
from which all the water has leaked
dry, unable to feel,
lifeless as a brown fallen leaf.

I wish I could feel his life inside
this empty vessel
feel his tiny beating heart and collide
with angels hovering around
hear their celestial sound
but on this day - of all days
again I feel a sadness
as silent as the night
he breathed his last breath
empty as a cave of death.

But a small crack on the side
lets a beam of light
in this night
so maybe a particle of hope will abide.
Let it be enough
to help me rise
to make another start
and give some life
to this dry heart.

My prayer is
to go deeper
so I can go wider
in the middle
of now

A poem written of my pain
frees me of its chains.
Writing is the poet’s kiss
goodbye to darkness
and hello to bliss.

Today I am running on empty
nothing inside to fuel my rising
from this morass.

Does this wet lowland into which I sink
come from me
or the invading viral horror?

Alone I cannot raise myself up
I need a power far greater than me
to invade heavy me
with light.

If I were to reflect on my life
with books
if I were to spend the time
such a reflection deserves
I would be here for a week
seeking just the right words
to speak the inexpressible gift
of authors who gave their love
to finding themselves
binding themselves
to an idea
that deserved
and emerged
as new life.

The sheer volume of these gestations
trumpets and sings
anthems and hymns of grace
broken through inside the human heart.

I would not be who I am
but for their inspiration
and daily dedication
to pressing pen to page upon page
so I could turn a new leaf
and become all I was meant to be.

Books are acts of making love
right there on my table
day after passionate day
long after many have passed away
from the mornings they woke up
to this work, this play
with words
that would open worlds
for me and millions
to create something
ordinary or magnificent
for our presents and futures.

I bow to these small lumens,
authors and makers
who birthed their creations
and bound them together
from genesis to revelation.

Walking down a forest path
I encountered a puddle.
Upon stopping I could see
a thin coat of oil floating there
the sun caught it just right
to see a rainbow in the glare
and tiny luminous unfixed bubbles moved by air.
Confined in this small muddy world
the oil and each of its parts
glowed as if to assert its beauty and freedom.

My fascination
became a reflection
of my confined small worlds
but floating and free
as I try to be me
in this sea.

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.

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.

It’s so easy to fool myself
to be a dual self
one comfortable floating in delusions
the other in truth.
There is one me
lurking just beneath the surface
in the shadow hour,
the one who hasn’t called the lonely man
to see if there is anything I can
to help him peek out into the light
he has missed since his mother left
him alone after her death.

Is there a me  
one of the two
who’s whole and true
ok with being ordinary
ok with my immutable limits?

What freedom this would be
to accept this ordinary me
not living in a regret
of never being ideal
but instead living free
to just be me – finite and real.

I see the ebb of your small life
preparing for a new season
you have turned amber gold
as you fly on the wind
luminescent in the morning sun
as you join your tiny breath
to the great murmur of earth
sweeping across the landscape
here in the december of this sad year.

Here I am in clouds of gray
the curtain closing on the day
on the horizon the last light
softly lingers before the night
bright voices of day’s gladness
fade away, my heart veiled in sadness.

The blustery afternoon shook the wings
of elm, its leaves, flying golden things
I hear them sing as they fall
then whisper their farewell call
now in the gloaming of the day
the clouds invite rest or a moment to pray.

Ask sursease of sorrow ahead
but dwell not on shores of dread
believe the voice from inside
in each passing moment abide
let go the chains of control
find a piece of joy in your soul.

The days of running and taking two steps at a time
from the first to the fifth floors
now take residence in my memory.
Ah! those agile days
those green days of glory
gracious energetic evenings
mornings of discovery
legs alive with their power
biceps bulging with urgent effort
sensual adventures glistening.

Now fresh challenges await
just as vital and crucial
in a crucible, a cauldron of change
urging me
to union with tallow and elm
a sunrise symphony
of creative awakening
grace of diving deep waters
of a blue and beckoning sea
to the newest version of me.

Here I am lost on a stormy sea
here you are again with me
my life raft and my light

I told the wise old man I didn’t like the word, “sin.”
     He said:
          “My son, remember the Greek
          an archery term – to miss the mark -
          no human always hits the bulls-eye
          just practice your aim
          train your muscles and eyes
          so next time you release the arrow of action
          you will come closer.
          Practice practice practice, my son.
          Don’t wallow in shame
          it will bog you down.
          Instead, stand up, pick up arrow
          check its feather
          raise bow and arrow together
          open your eyes and again take aim
          release yourself from darkness of blame
          and again join the human race.”

How stubborn am I
switching off the guy
who dares disagree
or who once offended me
like the pious phony pols
their oily speeches and hollow calls.
See what I mean?
I can’t resist a keen
cutting critique of my doctrinal foes
in my poetry and my prose.
Why can’t I give up judging
and like you, be stubbornly loving?

We take time
to read from our wisdom books.
We ask questions,
pausing to think
before we speak.
We tell stories from our journeys.
We laugh,
tears on the brink of our eyes.
We speak from the tulip bulbs
of the gratitude
about to spring from our *******.
We sigh
upon the fruit
of this interlude together.

How I seem to need
the cleansing of tears lately!

You did not sing to me
in the cool of the evening
nor plant a lyric in my slumber at noon.

I did not breathe in the your joy
as I freely swung in the blue sky
peered upward in the pail of the balloon.
  
You were gone when my stomach tensed
scanning the spread sheet
my stocks trending downward.

Hammering on my patio project
sweat spilled from my brow.
You, absent from my now.

I blamed you for leaving me,
for my edgy mood and emptiness.
But it was I who slammed the door to the sweet  vapors
of your spirit as I absorbed myself
in the foggy persuasions of my evasions.

A tragic result of this virus
is our fear of others’ breath,
of being right next to death.
Yet when poets breathe
it is the words they leave
that render light and life.

May we again
on our faces feel the wind,
a gale of passion
a tickling breeze to tease
our imaginations and wit.
May we soon smile
or even laugh in a little while
and be close enough to hear whispered
a naughty limerick
or an intimate loving verse.

Do you know someone
who suffers humbly
without fanfare or ego?

I know someone like that
who’s a bridge
between my own weakness
and the light beyond.

How brilliant
this rescue
this simple span.

Awakened by a nightmare
       lost my wallet and belongings
fear in the darkness
my prayer empty
dominated by fright
here I am writing
on this lit screen
trying to find peace
and security.

Is it a malady of our species
this fear in darkness
always looking for light?
If not a malady,
the human condition.

In my awakeness I know
sanity is learning to live in smear,
the swirling mixture
of darkness and light
for now.

The simple peasant girl
received some blessed news
that would overturn the world
she grew up in, the life she knew.

Chosen to receive a special gift
she was confused and dismayed
to get this favor she had not wished
for which she had not prayed.

She felt unworthy, confused, and awed
she knew not whether to make this start
on this journey to which she was called
but said yes and opened her heart.

I wonder if I would have the nerve
in spite of feeling so unworthy,
knowing this gift was undeserved,
to be open to such an uncertain journey.

The afternoon sun shines green in the Elm
bathes the day in transparent glory
autumn grants a few more emerald days
in a clear bright sky of blue.
Oh how the wonders of this earth
cast hope to me
piercing shadows with what is true.