Will you teach me,
and let me see
how you’ll reach me
without poetry.
Send your smile
from your sweet face.
Rest your gaze awhile;
fill my empty space.
Talk to me deep
with dulcimer tones.
In my mind creep
through touch, computers, phones.
Then, at last, when we again meet,
I’ll savor your wisdom with no repeat.
Sometimes I think in/
haikus. Sometimes I think in/
Blues. Sometimes I rhyme.
I can’t take credit for beauty’s Creation,/
but I will acknowledge my observation./
I view and grasp glory sans hesitation,/
from the grandest sunrise to the smallest crustacean./
Sometimes, I can feel His frustration/
as others walk the world in blind libation.
Boundaries being/
respected may give results/
never intended.
Rhubarb. Strawberries./
Pinch of sugar. Small pot. Heat./
Summer’s ending treat.
OR
After I flipped the spoon out of the pot onto my hand…
Summer’s final burn.
Sometimes the doldrums/
of the everyday leave you/
with nothing to say.
The young,
optimistic s/he,
running,
happy,
care free,
observing,
enjoying,
creative,
Withdrew.
From fear,
through a desire
for self-preservation,
and wrapped itself
deep within
the shell
that grew
and matured
and thrived
and took the blows
and the arrows
and the doubts
and the pain.
But one day
the cocooned,
energized,
insightful,
observant,
joyful
protected being,
who had grown
and been nurtured
and cherished,
realized it was time.
Time to emerge.
Time to reveal.
Time to risk.
Time to take
its rightful place
as owner
and operator
and thinker
of its soul
and mind
and destiny.
It was scary,
at first,
to show itself.
To say “Here I am,
again,
for the first time.”
But it felt the warmth of the sun
on its face.
The cool breeze blowing through its hair.
The moist mist of early morning
fog lifting.
The passion
and compassion
of love.
And it knew,
having been sheltered
and protected
and nurtured
and walled
for so long,
that free,
and fearless
and embracing
and empowered
and enjoying
and joyful
was where it belonged.
Here.
Now.
Being.
You took an object/
immovable, and broke it/
in two. And it grew.
My heart rate rises/
when you appear, and whisper:/
“Let’s get it in gear!”
She wrote when she could./
Her excuse, valid and good./
I should stop crying.