I wasn’t there on the morning he arrived,
it all happened too quick, too early.

Receiving a child from God
mimics perfection,
a glimpse of Heaven for a time.

Michael was born imperfect
(we all are),
his illnesses overcame
the fight he put up
(with help from his doctors).

What comfort is there,
amidst imperfection,
surrounded by
false perfectionism?

What comfort is there?

He fought, but lost the battle.
He tried, and won the war.
For in perfectly appointed time,
he passed
from my arms
to the most perfect arms
of Jesus.

That is
perfect comfort.

There is a new chill in the air,
my aging bones attest to
its bitter sting.

Dog days of summer have passed,
change is in the air.
Colors change,
moods are different.
All around us,
melancholy sets in
as we prepare for
winter’s doldrums.

Through arthritic reminders,
my body prepares to battle
this northern climate’s
failure at global warming.

Yet it’s not an end
to anything,
but rather a beginning.

Fall into winter
so we can
spring into summer.

It really is
perfect.

I took a risk,
dipped into
a huge vat of
courage.

Admitting weakness,
hinting at illness
is not an easy
road to travel.

Some understand,
but they are few.

Most scoff, believing
nothing of the torment
a mind can go through.

Yet in the darkness
of a soul’s revolution,
there is a light
which direct’s one’s eyes
to a way of peace.

Be that what it may
for you,
I have found
my strength.

His name
is Jesus.

With him by my side
and his Spirit in
my heart
I will fight.

I will be liberated
from this dank cell
of depression.

I will rejoice.
I will be free.
I will live.

Murmured voices break the silence

To my right
a cute couple clink
their wine glasses together
in a celebratory toast.

Off to the left,
an older gentleman
engages an old-ish lady
in whispered conversation.
I’m guessing he’s whispering
sweet nothings to his bride.

The well dressed young man
standing at the bar
survey’s the crowd,
looking restless.
He seems to be waiting
for…

Ah, that beautiful girl
that just walked in.
Her eyes light up,
his face breaks into
a big smile.

I love the ambience
of this old place.
Red carpets,
dim lights,
candles flickering in
every direction.

My time here is
almost done.
I only need
some sugar
for this last
cup of coffee.

I spent my day
counting blessings.

One gift of life
that my father
and mother
welcomed as me.

I know how to count,
two follows one,
but amidst much thought
I can't see three.

I'm stuck, entrenched,
mired in the glue
that holds me
where I am.

This second blessing,
the one that defines me,
is like manna from Heaven.

Two hands, holding steadfast
through ups and downs
life and death
sickness and health.

Two looks, eyes to eyes
passing an understanding
through a mere glance.

Two hearts, intertwined
to become one,
beating to a cadence
of love.

I counted my blessings
and got stuck at two.

For there it was
Me and you.

Somewhere

Somehow

I can’t identify when
it changed.

I saw things differently,
my eyes no longer covered
by an opaque way
of thinking.

Sunshine brightened this world
with unimagined colors,
butterflies broke free,
songbirds warbled lovely tunes.

Amidst emerging beauty
words became
every day’s lifeblood;
I found my voice.

All around me,
there was change,
yet everything remained
the same.
For it was me
that changed.
Reborn, rewired.
My heart drummed
a brand new beat.

Driven by transformation,
I wrote. I write.
Adding a dash of color.
Singing harmony
to surrounding melodies.
I am changing.
I am writing.
I am a poet.

I am prepared
to experience
joy with pain,
success via failure.

My mind is opening up
to creative vibes,
my muse is beckoned
once again.

I long for
that euphoric ******
when a new poem
is born,

yet I fear a block
which prevents any thoughts
from becoming
alive.

Write! Ignore all obstacles
which stop my passion
from existing.
Think outside the box.

Listen.
Feel.

My heart will guide
inspirations into
words.

And through it all,
I will learn
to write again.