Those pictures of me
Are disingenuous images

Blurred from the start
The fuzziness has grown over time

I’m told to see myself
Where can I find a true mirror?

Others say the sounds of me
Are clear and eye-opening

I listen for the sounds inside me
Can sounds ring distinct and genuine

Still much static blurs
The best parts of me

I seek to find silence
To settle into solitude

I engage in deeply
Listening to the uttering of my heart

My heart emits a song
Of the genuine me

Faded stains of bourbon
dot her nightstands’ weathered surface
like stars speckle the midnight sky

Each impediment commemorates
a symbol of courage
to help forge another day

Bras, slippers, heels, and flats
pepper the carpet
each a reflection of impediments
that fleck her soul

Harbored distortions from her past
forgiven by those she harmed
forgotten by others
fester within her frontal lobe.

Rain pelts upon the window
rat-tat, rat-tat against the panes
repetitive sounds that fling open her mind
to let today’s downpour
splash away
every trace of her anguish

So far away
The shooting
The killing

So close
The anger
The hatred

Viral scenes
Confront us
If we click
If we open our eyes

Who is our fellow traveler
If not you
Both near and far

Produce stuff
Consume it all
For tomorrow
We may die

Some gain
More and more

Others do more
With less

What does
It mean
Essential

Fluff, excess
Surrounds us

The question is
Not who is dying
Rather the question is

What is dying
Is it
The planet

Here we roam
Waiting
Beneath the shroud

I seldom learn about life
When walking fast along a path,
Exercise becomes the goal
Instead of understanding
Who I am, what the world is about
And why I am here

I seldom learn about myself
By reading the morning paper
instead of hearing the good morning song
Of the wren visiting
Among the feeders

I seldom learn about you
By thinking what I will tell you
Instead of hearing deeply
What you are saying and
What you are feeling while you say it

I seldom become aware
Until I feel my breath
Cascading in and out
Filling my belly and
Leaving my chest

Perhaps life is simple
When we experience it
Moment by moment
Instead of trying
To capture it
And make it ours

Politics is broken
Something is missing

Politics is polarized
Opinions are divided
Clearly we are at extreme odds

Perhaps Vernon Jordan*
Had his finger on the pulse
Of this confounding
Movement years ago

The panel was distinguished
Vernon Jordan spoke  
“In Washington, there is no longer civility”

Elected officials representing opposing camps
Engage in animus and grudges
Without social civility

Without civility
There is no healing
Nor is there compromise

I know I had a dream last night

The dream was the first thing I remembered
when I woke up

I know it was about a child
Perhaps a near baby

I was with a male friend
Though I don’t remember who

I’m sure that I was at a baseball game
Which I left before it finished

And I left the child there
With some people I met
Sitting behind me

I do recall being told by someone
Perhaps my wife

To go back and get the child

Which I was doing when I was awakened
By a noise on the street

I hope the child is okay

Some mornings
smiles seem wider
your lover's hands
seems softer and hold you longer

Some afternoons are sublime,
beyond scripting
with skies
of unending blue

Some nights  
clocks tick louder
move slower
like life will go on and on

Some moments
are charged with electricity,
love flows down the circuits.
one becomes weak in the knees

Sometimes you get
close to others
and know enough
to sit and watch love grow

The sheets are cool
Upon crawling inside
Unlike your continual warmth

A lullaby soothes me
Welcoming my dreamworld
Perhaps infancy is approaching

Over forty years
Beside legs willing
To entangle

Whoever thought our nights
Would become my
Emotional sustenance

Weathered turf
Fights against the steel
Clean sharp spikes
Penetrating hard packed soil
Struggling to fight off
Dandelions and noxious crabgrass
Growing in greensward despite
A lack of much-needed rain

Renewal begins as
Aeration creates holes
Spaced apart ready to accept
Seed flung across the lawn
By the cranking of a flywheel
Beneath the canvas sack of kernels
Destine to become blades
Of new grown Kentucky bluegrass

Re-seeding, renewal
Essential for lawns
As well as all living beings
Which regenerate
physically, mentally and spiritually
to fight off
Scars and growths
That disfigure and destroy

After forty years of marriage
he still pondered whether
she liked
his arm around
her stomach
as she awakened
in the morning

Each morning
the boundaries recede
Skies are still blue
Wisps of wind still stir
High noon marks an end
and a beginning
Must someone star
in a slow motion film
as a carp stirring
in the remnant floodwater
of a receding river

Each morning
He gathers
Those essential items
Left on the nightstand
Car keys, pill box,
jack-knife, and ball point pen

Pockets filled
With the necessities
For the day
He made a mental note
Find moments of stillness

Discover moments or places
To create a pause
Without sound
Or movement
Some short time
When he will inspect his
Surroundings
With noncritical awareness
Engage with the world
Like a wistful child
Who picks up a pebble
Rolls it over and over
Between his fingers
Studies it carefully
Before secreting it
In his pants pocket

During that moment of stillness
Perhaps he felt
Comfort oozing from
The stone or
Noticed the beauty
Gleaming at him
Reflecting the sunlight
Washing him with renewal

Yes, a baby
Asks questions
By the act of pointing
Or making a quizzical
****** expression

What is this world
What is the world about

It is so easy to Imagine
A baby not knowing
It is easy to imagine
Not knowing because
Who knows

Not the best of us
Not the stargazers
Not the book readers
Nor the book writers

Especially not the politicians
Who never stop
To ask the question
Or to ask any questions

Their nature is to accumulate
While they pretend to lead
While they pretend to guide
Their nature is taking

Some pretend to tilt
toward compassion
Toward caring
Toward altruism

No longer a baby
One grizzled octogenarian
Ask no questions
Merely wonders

Where has all of the wonder gone
He wonders if altruism is real
And if it is, why is
It ******* by greed

We’re living in two disasters
Impacts are felt each day and night
One leads some to death
And many to fright

Facing fear and grief
Nearly every livelong day
We quarantine, we distance
Wash our hands and pray

Politics is a disaster too
Grid-lock in congress and nothing gets done
Executive branch takes action in sputters and spurts
News cast tell us which party has won

Problem solving seems somehow forgotten
Bi-partisian actions are seldom and few
Who takes responsibility for these messes
It can’t be me so it must be you.

Stiff west wind blows cold
A testament to winter
See the huddled wren
Shield itself along the gutter
How sudden the seasons change

Words form in the mind
Evoke from the throat
Meant from the heart
Designed to penetrate
To the soul

Words so often fall barren
To the ground

Listen to each beat of
Blood racing
Through veins
In search of
A distinctive
Journey  

Intellect emanates
From the heart

Listen, hear
Heart speaks

First snow
The world is white
In color only

shelves filled
pages turned
podcasts downloaded
unfinished soundtracks
surrounded by media
mostly lies
pulpits visited
sermons forgotten

silence beckons
sit, notice
insight sifts

mist becomes
droplets
comfort
contentment

absorb this moment
search no more

That freshly planted bush
Dries under the afternoon sun
Filtering through an overgrown pear tree
Loaded with an unpicked harvest

Were he younger
He would climb the tree
Were he younger he would
Enter the house and kiss
The woman
Who says she loves him

That freshly planted bush
Might not make it
Through the Fall
Wilting and dying before Winter

Were he younger
The plant would not die
Were he younger
What would the plant become

When I say irritated, I mean it prickles my skin.

When I say sore, I mean it stays red and puffy.

When I say annoyed, I mean it furrows my brow.

When I say displeased, I mean my mind is tangled.

When I say provoked, I mean I long to strike out.

When I say I’m angered, I mean it fires my heart.

When I say enraged, I mean it curdles my soul.

Mentally moving into
Where I will be
In those moments ahead
Brings anxiety and fear

Those minutes  
Of the future
Provoke doubt and unease

Similarly, the past is like
A rug stained with footprints
Of mud and grit and misdeeds
Spots best described as guilt

What peace exists resides
Here and now . . .

And in conceding that
Sadness and dark moments
Contain kernels of truth

Surprise overcomes
Words seem nonsensical
Fact checks become
Daily headlines
Pure prevarication
Not mere vagueness
Untruths, shams
Two-faced attempts
To cheat to win
In a battle of ideas
Better still, flooding
Air-waves, all media
With bogus pre-text
That fend off
A battle
From ever being fought
Fabricated?
More than merely falsification
Calling truth a lie
Shout-downs over debate
A campaign designed to
Discredit, debunk and divide
* (back in the day we called this **** and bull)

Disarray surrounds him
In his antiquated
fourth-floor dwelling
Sheets of music, tablature,
Scrolls of data, reports of minimal finance
In stacks upon chairs, teeter
Precariously like arched boulders
Along Cumberland Ridge
Papers shuffle through his hands,
Which long for a keyboard
Where he shuns distractions,
Intent to share
what flows from his passion

I remember
parishioners entering
St. Luke’s enraptured by his piano hymns
As he praised his God

He formed his very own God,
One
of tolerance, love and compassion
He wished for approval
For his playing, his thoughts,
His longings and lusts

So different from those
Lining rows of mahogany pews.

I wonder if he is happy

In his heavenly spot

Where friends adorned
In colored shorts and flowery shirts

Play lyrics on golden strings

And parade their adoration to God.

Like a spider
Captures it’s prey
Viewers and bees
Succumb to the magnetism
Of pastel petal clusters
And long, whisker-like stamens
Petals flashing pink
Remenicent of the lips of
The girl who was
A first teenage crush
Delicate yet hardy
Center stage is cleome’s
Captured from black-eyed susans
Blooming hostas and mexican petunias
Perhaps it’s sinful to bask
In your radiance
Know that this
Is not a one season stand
Cleome will return next year
And the next
Loyalty is endless

Solitude
Can be spent
Enjoying what is in your midst

Solitude
Can be refreshing
Refilling the cup you carry

Solitude
Can become hard
As thoughts swirl in one’s mind
Taunting us with unpleasant
Or daunting views
Laced with brooding anxiety

When ruminating becomes  
Mulling over fears
Our negative thoughts
Become erroneous ideas
That feed even more
Agony and fretting

Name the feeling
Of desponding anxiety

Pull yourself away
From within yourself
Back to the beauty of the solitude
And experience the rejuvenation
of each new moment

Pause
Start by awareness
What brightness exists around you
Give a welcome to this moment

Attend to yourself
Do your fingers feel thick or slender
Are your feet on the floor
How solid is your footing

Notice your breathing
Breath in and breath out
Count ten of these
Now another ten

As you return to your efforts
To pursue the tasks of the day

Swivel chair swings side-to-side
like a wind chime twisting in March's gusts.
Thoughts of the past fade in and out
reminiscent of film in a faulty projector.

Much is forgotten.
Denial of certain behaviors
shuns responsibility as whole
pages are wiped from his memory scroll.

Each night images play before him.
******, like a needle on a balloon,
burst thoughts of contentment
and feelings of tranquility.

How does one mute
static from past sins ,
to accept
the salve of forgiveness?

Give me notice
For life is short
I might have more to do
Than rest on your doorstep
Hoping you will open the latch
Greet me with a smile
And suggest we spend the day
Viewing the community pond
Feeding the ducks
Cementing our bond

Give me notice
So I will not
Fall in love alone

Thinking ahead
to those moments
generates anxiety and fear.

It feels like
I might open a box
of dire circumstances,
a basket of hassles,
for tomorrow
is so uncertain.

Similarly, the past
resembles a rug
stained with footprints
of mud, grit, and misdeeds
best described as guilt.

Self-reproach
obscures all awareness
of the present moment.

Peace exists;
it resides in my awareness
of now.

And in those moments together,
God concedes
that sadness and dark times
are assured.

These obligatory struggles,
though arduous to traverse,
are trials
that contain kernels of truth
for me to grasp

if I pay attention.

To live is not counting each breath
Or even noting the time it takes to breathe
Living is doing, creating, exploring and manufacturing
Living is being in the moment with what you are doing
Living is never knowing when you will die
Never seeing a sure end
Any forty-eight hours can be significant
Moments in one’s life. Moments of proposals
Moments of sacraments, of discovery
Of learning, forgetting, remembering and re-learnig
The last forty-eight hours can be hours of passion
Of love-making, or of making one last attempt to do
the thing you never had the courage to do
The last nanoseconds can be of apathy
Like the many bits of boredom that wasted much of life
To live is not counting each breath
Or even noting the time it takes to breathe
Living is doing, creating, exploring and manufacturing
Living is being in the moment with what you are doing

To breathe
Is but one of my
Entitlements

To rise
And walk
With the ability
To change direction

To experience
Feel, gather, immerse
Myself in each event of life

So, what are my
Entitlements in life?
To breathe
To rise
To walk
To immerse
To change

Sitting here seeing
A parade of thoughts
ideas, worries, and preoccupations
Passing by like vehicles
Streaming along a city interstate
Rolling around inside
And me
Without a map or particular direction
Sunday driving through brooding distractions

Mind watching prompts discontent
Something is missing
Seeking inside the breath
As it flows downward then up and out
A new feeling emerges
A feeling of being engulfed
Surrounded by calm
To carry me to a new place
Mindfully lost in thought
To discover moments
Of the peace that passes
All understanding

You left your home,
Your flowering tree
That bore you in the springtime.

Once released,
You drifted to the lake below.

Now on the water,
You drift again with the current
To reveal your whiteness

Your buoyancy
Creates gentle ripples

This picturesque scene,
Attracts attention—you're beautiful.

Your petals catch the sunlight,
Bringing feelings of tranquility
Unlike any other.

That freshly planted bush
Dries in the afternoon sun
Filtering through an overgrown pear tree
Loaded with an unpicked harvest

Were he younger
He would climb the tree
Were he younger, he would
Enter the house and kiss
The woman
Who says she loves him

That freshly planted bush
Might not make it
Through the Fall
Wilting and dying before Winter

Were he younger
The plant would not die
Were he younger
What would the plant become

Written in 2018
The plant has survived

Words appear nonsensical
Fact checks are becoming daily headlines.
Pure prevarications
Not mere vagueness
Bold untruths, shams
Two-faced attempts
To cheat to win
In a battle of ideas.
Better still, flooding
Air-waves, all media
With bogus pretext
That fend off
A battle
From ever being fought.

More than just falsification,
blatant fabrications!
Labeling truth a lie
Shut-downs instead of debate,
All communication aimed
to discredit, debunk, and divide.

* (back in the day we called this **** and bull)

She cannot grasp her shifting landscape,
With its muted morning lyrics
from both Robin and Cardinal.

What has dimmed today’s sunrise?
Her steps are shorter, her walk slower,
both signs she disregards
of her approaching twilight age.

She rests on her favorite bench
by the garden gate.
She finds no handle on the rusted bolt.

No entrance for her inspiring plod
among her realm of light and sound.

Sitting, she gathers courage,
new strength to
climb over the weathered fence.
Undaunted, she reaches
her limit. Her muscles feel lacking.

Accompanied by her mystic shadow self,
her playful muse mirrors what she feels: incapability.

The morning sun reflects
Across the leaves of the red-tipped photinia,
Flowing forth to accent the brilliant
White of the oak leaf hydrangea.

Peacefulness rests solidly on the scene.
There is time for talk and a chance to listen.

Life is calm, except for the roughness at the edges.
Disagreements suddenly become prominent.

How does one disagree?
When do topics become as rough as sandpaper?
How hard does one scrape the soft edges of ideas?
If rubbed too deeply, do emotions sour, curdling like overnight cream left unrefrigerated?

Can we play with these ideas like juggling bottles in the air?
If they are dropped, are they erroneous, becoming shards swept to the garbage?

Righteousness and reason override relationships. We must think alike if we are to be maintained.

Midday has arrived; sunshine dominates. Hydrangeas and the red-tipped leaves now glow the shade of seafoam,
Shining as clearly as a meadow.

Have our ideas become more lucid, more detailed, more correct?
Were we willing to discard what was deemed baggage, too wrong to carry beyond today?  

What too has become of us together? Did our arguments massage so intently our intellects that the bruising might not heal?

Garbled groans
Emanate from
A feeble opposition

Debilitated Democrats
Stunned and still

For want of the right word
For want of a plain proposal

Meekly making
Faint sounds of life

Begging belatedly
“Follow the rules”

Cheating continues
Constitution crumbles

I sit in a trance as the morning sun sifts through the porch window.  Music from a Carolina wren taunts the world with a glorious tweet.

My wife invades my trance, “Look what Amazon brought me.”

My reply, “That’s nice, honey."

My eyes fixed on a headline, “Colleges are cautious about graduation speakers who might provoke the government!”

Freedom of speech, where have you gone?
Are you hiding in the canyons of the Appalachian Hills?
Concealed in the wheat fields of Kansas?

Will ICE deport the songbirds to Latin America
because they sound like freedom?