When I pause here
in this private spacious room
and allow the silence to swirl around me
I bathe in love and anticipation
of finding a free spirit
in the small details of my day.

Here I don’t hear the sounding horns
the low moans of trucks
the frenetic exclamations of TV mavens.
All I hear is a quiet voice
calling me to stay here
my attention undivided
if only for a few moments.

In this quiescence I discover
the depth and the richness
of just being.

The eye of the hurricaine is still and lonely.
The sands on the beach are left untouched.
The church pews sit empty.
The store shelves are scant.
The pitches are quiet,
The playgrounds are empty.
The fields are burnt.
The waters are grey.
The air about is thick and acrid.
The windows are shuttered, doors are barred.
There are no moving bodies on the streets.
Cars sit idly parked.
Schools are childless.
Does this sound like the dawn of the apocolypse,
Or another four years.

isn't it a pity
we're heading towards the end
there's a war without a winner
and no-one left to mend

an idea that's long been buried
by those who run the show
give peace a chance is over
a dream we'll never know

for the dreamers now are silenced
truth they can't afford
the end days set in motion
resolutions go ignored

isn't it a pity
they hurried us along
made us smart but we're not ready
now we see why that was wrong

they watch and wait and wonder
do they save or let us go
are we worth our own salvation
or do we start again...

all things come to pass
and the day will soon be here
so we smile and make our way
as if we have no fear

isn't it a pity
isn't it a shame

I played with words
much like I fed the birds

    one morsel here
       another there

then suddenly became aware

they pulled together
     and made sense

have been a player ever since

maybe I'll write a poem today
I've got little else to do
my junk news, wordles, and puzzles are done
did the laundry too

I've got a book to write
and friends to visit
why is that such a reach?
I go through the motions in my comfort zone
watching silent webcams of the beach

I need milk and bread
cereal and eggs
but Walmart seems so far away
little makes me laugh or cry
and each color turns to gray

When I stop
I notice your unwavering presence
your persistence surprises me
because I neglect you.
Lovers don’t do that.

In my dreams you are there
passing through my imagination
like a genie yearning to gift me.
Your stories teach me about your desire
to interrupt my ordinary.
I even remember a few of your tales
and try to figure out what they mean
for my dull self.

I know. You don’t like me discounting my self
because when I do so
I discount you my precious one
and the awesome power of your love.

Inspire me today
a day of needed and neglected work.

You are here my love
in every fiber of my body
every impulse of my mind.

I will dive into the river of your compassion
and be refreshed by it.

I thought Snake Oil Salesmen were a relic
of the past, standing up on a stage dispensing
blatant lies and bogus even dangerous cures
for our exaggerated imagined illness and or
personal fears.

I thought we ran all of them out of town,
suitably tarred and feathered, riding on
a splintered hitching post rail.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry. Step right up folks!
In this little bottle, I hold in my hand, is a
magic elixir of my own imagination and
invention, that is absolutely-unconditionally
guaranteed to heel what ails you and Make
America Great Again, all I ask for this be all,
cure all, is one small vote cast for me, crowning
me King of all there is, and your money to get
me there."

For the weak of mind and of poor judgement
his bombastic lies and falsehoods are irresistible
even dangerous, yet still they reach deep into
their pockets to buy what he is selling.

Now where did we put that rail?
Decency and intelligence should
rule the day, not stupidity and
meanness of heart. Run that orange
charlatan out of town, or better yet
lock him up and throw away the key.

This morning before my body woke up
my mind was unleashed in a dream.
I was back in a classroom
at an college campus somewhere
in an inconceivable city.

Not totally unlike my actual classrooms
of decades past when the culture was in ferment
and freedom reigned
rained a storm of acceptance
beyond tolerance where everyone
had a chance to become great.

This dream was a pulsing field hospital
where healing permeated everyone present
where our combined body heats generated a sweet aroma
of intellectual and spiritual sweat
that transported each of us beyond
the confines  of our individual biographies
and stories of human suffering

We heard poems and songs composed
by students eager to learn from the oversouls
of everyone present there
students of every background imaginable
we were a single body
a collection of lungs breathing as one.

Thank you Great Dream Weaver
only you could extend my soul to the Universe
in one glorious magnificent moment
greater than time itself.

This old teacher was young again
in a mutually creative minute of sleep
regenerative  and artful
beyond the confines of flesh and blood.

Gratitude is such a weak word
for what I feel
now for this marvelous scene
more than any puny fact or actuality.

Lightly my fingers rest on the letters
hoping to coax  out of them
a lyric or a prayer to end this day.
I love these letters
who open the universe,
who touch the cheek of God
and fall here like shooting stars
or small planets
for you to see.

I miss a stone and step into the shallow stream
like a child hoping for an adventure
from his misstep into the clear water
where he can fall into the sky
and ride a cloud to Odessa
Pikes Peak or north to the Cascades.

I remember when the soles of my feet
were calloused from running across lawns
sidewalks and streets to play
ball or adventure into the nearby field
where we fashioned a fort our of tall sticky ****
and made up rules for initiation into our club.

What a life I find in these letters
who surrender to my touch so easily
what a symphony to match the music of Mahler
coming across the net falling here into my ears
like undeserved grace.

Why is the heart the icon of love?
Why not the finger or the thigh?
Would it be just as compelling to say
He loved her with all his mind?
The mind is surely involved in loving -
deciding to do the dishes rather than watch football
or to be romantic when she touches your cheek
while in the midst of writing the last page of your novel.

Why didn’t I ever make love to Mabs
in my twenties rather than discuss politics?
Oh! She was so cute
and smelled like heaven
but our kisses were dry.

I gave my heart to Helen tonight
and she gave me hers
we laughed and teared up
as we shared romantic memories.

And why can’t I feel the heart of Jesus in me?
Is it some spiritual vapid void?
I love and know him but having his heart
escapes my grasp.
I hope before I pass
I will feel him pulsing in my veins.

Maybe another poem
or five or more will help,
for I know my  muse knows
the springs and streams I seek.
And here on these pages
may be an answer…