Life is the water
we are the filter
when its pipe is stuck
we'd all run out of luck!

i’ve become
the shape of water.
i mold to rooms
i don’t belong in,
fill cracks
in other people
just to keep from spilling.

no one sees
how close i am
to evaporation.
how heavy i feel
in a glass too full
of silence.

they think
i’m calm
because i don’t make noise,
but grief has no splash
when it sinks like this.

i’ve learned to drown
quietly.

A passage of unseen looks,
A stolen question, sequestered
By worries—
Can I see you
For a moment?
Words laid at a doorstep,
Fingers quietly wound together,
A hand holding a head--
Don’t speak,
You don’t have to.
God knows your heart better
Than I ever could.
Bring it to Him,
Fall apart,
Feel the Spirit catch you—
It is not my arms,
But the love of Christ
Supporting you through me,
Gracefully broken.

I found myself on the verge
Of tossing out this poem
But the green in me said wait and see
It might just be recyclable

Perhaps someone else could use it
Bits and pieces, if not all
They could have a line or two that rhymes with a few
Of the stanzas I used to make up this poem

So, I set it out on the curbside
With a sign reading free to a poet in need
Which didn't take long till one came along
And snatched up the poem from the weeds in my lawn

Feeling proud of myself for the effort
In this poetic environment
Showing the world that I care and am well aware
Being willing to share with what little I have
in the recycling of this poetic trash

And to think I almost tossed it
Which should be a lesson to us all
If you think what you have is nothing but trash
The trash that you have could be recyclable

Poems are not toothpaste,
you cannot squeeze another from the tube at will,
bend the ends of words for one last drop,
inspiration comes in waves
and when it wants to do so, it will stop,
you cannot pick a constant crop,
there are times when the field lies fallow
hiding seeds which may or may not grow
if and when they flower
that is not for us to know,
poets feed on what they find
the harvest of a fertile mind

If we choose to be
we can be:

the voice of the voiceless,
the strength of the weakest,
a glimmer of hope for the hopeless,
a ray of light in darkness.

My door
is open
by day
do drop over
for coffee
if you come
this way

my door
is also open
by evening
if you're hungry
join me
in supping

my door
will open
every tomorrow
come in
to chat
to share
whatever
this I'm sure:
our understanding
of each other
will splendidly grow