I see a solid object, in my mind,
Grasped by a phantom human hand,
Explored to distract, or pass the time,
Every day carry to a distant land.
Fidget, spin, or brass fitting held,
A soothing reminder, dense and cool.
Carried with me,
Compulsively,
In the pockets of a child,
Or maybe,
A fool.


It escapes,
Irretrievable,
                                   Time.

Gently... exhale , now,
Breathe out, but slow,
And I sink, if only a bit.
Down into the sea, but never in fear,
Though flat on my back in the vastness of it.

Gently... inhale,
Never panic, never rush,
Only trust, and the rise of my chest, but slow,
Only faith in the physics of fluids and mass,
And I rise again, safe from the depths below.

I rise again, safe, at the interface,
My lips welcome air from the edge of the blue,
My ears hear the sea, still muted and mingled,
With the sound of a voice, and a heartbeat, too.
A comfort, a terror, both in the same,
My regular gentle reminder of how,
The world cannot touch me from there,
In the past.

The sea touches all of me, here,

And right now.

Horrf, my friend, don't keep it in,
Horrf, the sound eternal !
For, soon, what once adorned your skin,
Shall be, once more,
External...

When misunderstandings flew every direction,
I tried to blame you, I gave it a shot.
But despite all the anger, resentment, correction,
Petty and cruel is something I'm not.

So it's time to step back,
Pull my head from the sand,
Outside of my self-absorbed ego, and stand...
Embrace the all,
and find it sufficient,
To still the mind and be with what is,
Pain and pleasure, in equal measure,
To God or Caesar, hers or his...

And on that June day, beside the black hearse,
I'll swear I caught sight of an eye or a mind.
Our new paths led to the first rehearsal.
The curtain opens and cold, we find,
We’re on the stage in a role reversal,
And though we may be deaf and blind,
     We hear a song,
            See a dance,
                 Universal.



#npminspire #forgiveness #taken #given

Conditional, conventional, this heart,
And the tough thin cloak I wear.
I give it to the few friends I make,
With room and love, always, to spare.

I met you in the valley, but the evidence was there,
Your eyes hid the fear and weariness,
Deep within the fire of a stare.
Or retreated, free from scrutiny,
To hide behind the fall of your hair.

The secrets, however, weren't easy to guess,
And for your good, I would do my part.
So I know that your void is filled with less,
Than fits your past or your darkest art.
I've seen your anger, wrath, and need:
It was protecting a kind and generous heart.

Your friendship was a gift, you trusted in me,
I trusted in you, which was better, I felt,
Than calling out the humanity  I see,
Within the rotten hand you were dealt.

I hope that I brought to you something of use,
Listening was the only thing that I knew how to give.
If I brought you harm, or cause for alarm,
Then the shame would stay with me
                                    for as long as I live.

They say that friendship is a place we go,
When two, or more, are there, it is real.
I'm confused but trying to understand,
And I'm more than confident,
                     that you know how that feels.

Slow is her progress and high is her climb,
It's measured in arcs that trace my night sky.
I spoke and she answered, but only in rhyme,
Across space and time, the poetess and I.

In my dream we met, and she told me she'd written,
Something dear to her kind heart- a poetic creation.
For Sara herself, I was utterly smitten,
And I urged her to share it, with awkward elation.

I rambled then, foolish, and shy to be near,
Since her words had already reached me before.
In a future that’s past yet, paradoxically, here,
And knowing, not knowing, just what was in store.

“There's a poem that you wrote...”, I had started to say,
“In the Bradbury story, I think that's the one”,
“There's an automated house that's going through it's day...”,
“It recites your piece aloud...?  but the people have all gone...?”

“ ‘There will come soft rains’,dear friend”, her reply,
And her smile said, “thank you.  I'm glad you recall”,
“But this one is shorter”, and her voice was a sigh,
“It’s a different theme, but encompasses all”.

Then, as you'd expect, in the midst of a dreaming,
She opened her notebook and the next thing I knew,
Four lines of writing appeared, only seeming,
To arrange themselves magical, universal and true.

——————————————————
"Moon's  Ending"  by Sara Teasdale

Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,
In the dawn clouds flying,
How good to go, light into light, and still
Giving light, dying.
——————————————————

Every step of our lives, we are walking the line,
Fail or succeed, illuminated in the trying,
The moon is just as bright when she's on the decline,
Our light, consolation to the living or dying.

Thank you, poets. You gave everything that you could,
When you’d make something holy from the simplest spark.
Thank you, friend, for understanding. I had hoped that you would.
Thank you, Sara, for writing the light and the dark.

Loyal hearts are a paradox,
These strong and frail commodities,
They're not concerned with etiquette,
Or confused by love's vast oddities,
They're strongest not for how they love,
Not weak for vision that they might lack,
They're strongest once they've been abandoned,
Love one who will not
Love them back...