finger pricked, its running blue,
because the oxygen i breath, is pouring out of you

NEW YEAR INTROSPECTION PART FOUR

the air of maturity 
is breathed today
with such rarity 
that what is termed 
the age of majority, *<
is in reality not, 
it instead being 
a place of minority; 
it's occupants being 
the selfless lot who 
give freely of their proffering, 
offering themselves an offering 
and considering themselves 
adequately advantaged 
as they willingly 
position becoming likely 
to be taken advantage 
and taken for granted
hearts ready for breaking 
yet give, love, share
heal, they do, 
and freely so; 
therein standing 
in stark contrast to 
the narcissistic hoards
who protect, 
with pirouetting steps, 
their barren nests, 
empty hearts,
and meager pockets, 
ever failing to realize 
that nature’s law 
bestows abundance best 
at the selfless giver’s behest.

NEW YEAR INTROSPECTION PART ONE*

when is one grown up? 
a question, asked and answered,
in wise words already written, 
for tis when those gifts 
with which we are, 
have been, 
so imparted are 
returned, 
imparted,
used 
for selfless ways, 
gift received, 
becoming 
gift re-gifted,
not only shared 
but given away 
many-fold, 
imbued, 
without expectation of 
return in one's own coffers,
on those dear souls 
within one's reach...
tis then the measure 
is measured 
and the cycle complete, 
having ridden, 
rode, 
far enough down the road, 
for the rubber to have 
not only met the road, 
but even more, 
leaving for others 
who come behind, 
bits,
pieces, 
chunks, 
living, breathing matter 
that matters, 
the impartee becoming 
the imparter, 
each being 
its own proof,
proving that, 
yes indeed, 
in deed, 
gift and giver are one, 
and one is all grown up.

may
     the
           rich
                goodness
                      of
          ­                  2013 ...

                             .. .pursue
                        you
                 into
      2014!

the clarion call
of the goose
in times gone by
the sound
like sweet waters
known well to his flock
a band of brothers
yet today, his call
on the heels
of a sharp report
a different sound
an urgent message
a call to gather
a call to protect
a call to form
a circle of hope
of encouragement
for not just
a better day
but a brighter path
shinning
because this journey
when taken in lockstep
wing to wing
together flying high
cannot fail to arrive
more rested
more able
more protected
this brighter path.

oh, rising sun on east horizon,
shine your light through purple hues;
sunbeam fingers reaching long,
spreading warmth ‘cross mountains blue.
awake, oh towering pine majestic,
for deep below your roots flows pure
crystal liquid falls in dance, 
fills each pool with nature's mirror.
this my Oregon, i call her home,
where skies of grey and winter long
chills milder souls to the bone,
yet hardy stock from which i come
know her best, still to be sung.
her rocky crags where eagles soar,
her mountain lakes, her breaking shores,
her rapid’s ripple, current strong,
her open skies and painted rocks,
from each she springs alive with flame,
floral tapestry, her fields ablaze,
here streams cascade through canyons tall,
tumbling long in waterfall,
through rock and mountain, a gorge cut deep,
a bridge to history, the gods they speak  (1
a people weary, journey long,
struggling forward they sang their song.
first the solo, small band of men
discovery's chorus, brave brethren;  (2
a choir growing, families joined, 
came for land, they stayed for joy 
by beauty smitten, they wrote her lore.  (3
today her wonder, her majesty
sings to her young, *“come, walk with me,
come ******* bounty from forests green,
from lakes, from streams, from ocean deep,
from waving fields of amber grains,
abundant yields, endure my rains.,
come sip my wines, my vineyards flow,
come drink my waters, winter’s snow,
drawn from my wells, my streams below,
my plains and valleys, my hills and dales,
i offer richness within my veil.
when journey’s burden becomes too great
find respite in my sunset’s slate,
my star-kissed skies they offer thee,
my arms, my breast, thy comfort be."

i 
met 
t  h  e 
poorest man... 
money   rendered
his heart impenetrable.

on the leafy salad of my life
you are the dressing...
for without you its all just
let-us and wish-es!

i choose to walk beside you.
we walk this journey together, you and i,
distant by earth’s miles, but not by the heart’s;
each knowing the other, less by the lines of our faces
and more through the footprints we leave on the pathway,
the pools of wisdom we leave beside it
for others to step into, enjoying its coolness,
soaking deeply in its cleansing,
allowing it to wash away the dust, the soil,
the tears of the journey.
here, now and until you need them no longer
i offer you mine.
lift the cup high, over your head and
let them run, splashing all the way to the ground…
let them wash your dusty, weary feet.

i choose to care for you.
those words spoken casually by some,
but intently from one whose compassion
becomes a torrent in seasons as this,
from one who has known the heart break of loss,
sent swiftly to you,
rushing down to a parched valley…
not in voluminous, drowning torrent,
but in rivulets of refreshing all around you;
ointment to apply to your wounds.
let this be salve to your loss-torn soul.

i choose to share with you.
graces, extended to me from others who saw the pain,
the burden, the travail of my journey,
these graces becoming mine to pass on.
words sent in comfort;
arms to wrap ‘round, hold and strengthen;
wisdom to bind up a broken heart…
grieving with you,
my tears i blend with yours
as together we weep.
please, drink these graces,
every drop of peace, hope and comfort…
let these revive your longing heart.

i choose to encourage you.
drink deeply from my well for the journey ahead.
draw from the graces of others all around you.
store it, hold it, let it revive and energize.
draw from the wisdom of the Ancient of Days,
for she lives…
she speaks to all who will hear, who will listen.
let her restore your tired mind.

*all of this…
this is what i mean when i say today,
“i choose to grieve with you”

He, miles from home is tired and alone, his body worn and ravaged by cancer. This treatment, though over but a moment too late, he arrives at the station as the last bus home rolls out of sight.

The next not till morning, his body fatiguing, his weary head needs a resting place. But like the story of old, he’s turned away; to this disfigured soul seems there’s no more room at the inn this night.

A border house owner, on her front porch she finds him, begging for a place to rest his soul. “I don’t need a bed, I’ll just sit here instead. With a face like mine marred," he said, "I know I create quite a fright."

But with compassion compelling, she finds herself telling him, “Sir, be of good cheer, please stay with me here. I’ll give you a bed for your weary head; yes, here you’ll be safe until morning light.”  

Said he, “Don’t know where to begin, but my condition of skin, gives others chagrin. Please, don’t think me rude, but I won’t need any food; just a small safe corner I would prefer, for in the morn I’ll be travelin’ home."

Later that evening, they talk for a spell. Her respect for him growing, as to his tell she sits listening; finds herself knowing that deep in this heart runs a pure river flowing, a body so frail, his heart has outgrown.

Home, is a daughter, with five hungry mouths; her husband disabled, unable to walk. He their provider with a fisherman’s rod, his own condition an afterthought. No word of complaint, only thankful instead, making her grateful to have heard his tome.  

Sure as promised, next morning she finds him, sheets neatly folded there on his bed.  As he is leaving she hears him asking,”Ma’am, may I return to this room?  While others reject me, you’re willing to accept me; last night left me grateful I wasn’t alone.”  

And return he did, with accompaniment of fish and oysters shelled fresh as his gift.  As his kindness she pondered she couldn’t but wonder at the hour of his awakening, for with shelling and travel, it left precious little for sleep.

Months they passed by and his visits continued and even when absent his thanks persisted, by parcel his gift from the sea would arrive, wrapped in spinach or kale, then packaged and mailed, each one showing his gratitude deep.

“Did you board that man with awful appearance?” a neighbor’s voice broke through her daydreams one day. Truth rose up inside, she had nothing to hide as she answered. “Any losses I suffered are smaller than gains, for lessons like these don’t come cheap.”

“See… these Mums that today bloom in my garden were once merely seeds, easily forgotten. But planted and watered they grew, in an old dented pail most would've discarded. But once strong and grown tall, I gently transplanted them allowing their beauty to beam.”

And here she reflected on thoughts that were tumbling, she found herself grateful for this enlightening: a lesson here offered, one others had missed, this remarkable teacher others dismissed; one teacher uncommon gave her life lessons, these three...

*1. Don’t judge a book by its cover, or silence the teacher before the lesson begins. 2. Let gratitude flow as an unending response. 3. Our Father often places His best seed, in an old dented pail where it grows in test; then gently is lifted to bloom in His garden, its legacy gleaming for all here to see.

they  found  him  lying... 
beneath the weight 
of  stolen 
lines!

facing one’s fearsome demons,

                                                 not unafraid... 

                                                   ­              but resolute

                                                               ­                 and unswayed!

oh, san juans, your riches beckon
your wealth, your beauty calls
your waveless, salty waters blue
my heart since childhood draws
your waters lap at darkened rock
'round islands, bays and inlets fill
with returning salmon teeming
your breaking waters thrill
your tide, oh ever river changing
charges muddy oyster flats
your thriving pods of orca leap
o'er spray in mid-air acrobats
from seabed swift, cold and deep 
the lushness of your green hills rise 
your sun falls fleet like shooting star
your sparkling waters mesmerize
sailing craft from ’neath horizon
angels spread their wings of color
skirt your shoals and ply your straits
find safety anchored in your harbors 
oh, san juans, your wonder waits
your treasure and your magic calls
your waveless, crystal waters blue
my heart since youth still draws
calls me to return each year
to dip my paddle deep
when life averts the journey there
in dreams you beckon while i sleep

When addiction runs deep,
Like the blood in our veins,
Its impossible to kick,
Unlikely to abstain.
For we are what we love,  
And we love what we are;
It’s said that an apple, 
From its tree won't roll far.

Her parents were junkies,
Generations gone by,
So deep in her blood,
It’d be cruel to deny.
I’ve found in resistance,
I beat my head on a brick,
So no longer at odds,
I embrace life as her fix.

“Honey, can you fix this?”
She says, smiling at the sale.
At the lamp I look closely,
It stands tired and frail;
It's brass tarnished dark, 
Its wire is frayed.
In my head I say, “No," then,
“Sure babe,” someone else said.

Believing I’ve dodged one, 
I breathe a sigh of relief;
We return to our Jeep, and
Drive away down the street.
Then I glance in the mirror,
And what do I see,
It’s that LAMP in my back seat,
Staring smugly at me.

“This dresser will be cool,
In robin's-egg-blue;”
Just describing the hue,
I see her almost drool.
“Yeah, natural on top,
It's frame painted, then glazed...
You’re the best at glueing drawers!”
She adds icing with praise.

“Look, here’s a chair I found,
with pretty calico;
If you fix it's broken arm,
You’ll be my hero!
Cuz I am sure it will fetch, 
Ten times what I've paid.”
I’m a wage earner no longer,
She pays me in accolades.

That bowl with mustard yellow,
Picture frames of wood & plaster;
An old tin box, and this small broach,
A barrel chest with leather straps.
A jewelry box, 
(A lover’s locket found inside)
Each purchase she makes,
Adds satisfaction, and pride.

Her addiction runs deep,
She’s my bargain-maker;
Not a corporate girl, 
But she’s a mover and shaker.
Yes, she's my ******,
And I am her fix;
Together we’re a duo,
"Can we peak in your attic?"

In my chair as I write this,
I feel something, turn and see;
And there pinned to the cushion, 
Is a price tag poking me.
Now I’m nervous as a cat,
Wouldn’t want to fall asleep;
For fear I could wake up, 
In the back of someone else's Jeep!

farewell to an unnamed river
that flows so rich and so deep
consummate wordsmith 
your waters will never run dry
spinner of mesmorizing tales
lover of tributes and words
kin to my homeland
i wish you well
my never-met, poetic friend 
following you (though at a distance)
has been a pleasure
i wish you well
stay safe, my friend
farewell