A rose, knelt,/
at a dance,/
is scarcely a precursor/
to true romance.
Nor does it show/
any gentlemanly side./
It simple shouts out/
for attention, with pride.
Much more kind/
is the man who just/
treats women with respect/
and so gains their trust.
For ’tis not with the outward loud showing,/
but with inner kindness which sets women’s hearts glowing.
From YOUth,
my head-mind
ego-fed,
unkind,
spoke words
of doubt,
“you’re absurd”,
fear,
“you’re not dear”.
Each time I thought about
doing
saying
writing
joking
dancing
acting
laughing
being
open mic-ing,
improving,
anything-ing,
I’d hear:
“That’s stupid.”
“That’s immature.”
“You’re attention getting.”
“That’s weird.”
“Others will think you’re odd.”
“That’s embarrassing.”
“You’re absurd.”
“That’s not spiritual.”
“You’re a bad example.”
“You’re scary.”
“You’re juvenile.”
“What would Jesus do? NOT THAT!”
“You’re not good.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re self-centered.”
“You’re a fool.”
For so long
I believed the voice,
the Angst,
the negative,
the stoppage,
until I was living
a blocked
shut-down,
fearing
life.
Then guides
invited me
to take an 8-inch
trip
down,
from my mind,
fearing,
name-calling,
ego,
to my heart.
I like journeys,
so I accepted
the invitation.
I took my hand
filled with thoughts
from my head,
and placed it
and them
on my heart.
There I felt
the warmth,
tenderness,
and love
growing from deep within.
As I heard-thought
those words
of fear
and rejection
and shame,
from my head,
my loving,
kind,
big,
gentle
heart
listened to them,
those embarrassment / hate words,
then simply,
calmly,
lovingly
but forcefully
whispered:
“Or not.”
I did send you a/
picture of my heart. That’s art./
But you don’t like it.
Late night
starry lights
shine at Christmas.
Neighbors trees
illuminate me
as I pass.
My friends I’ve left.
I feel bereft
and moan “Alas!”
To whom shall I turn?
They won’t return
who I’ve sassed.
I shouldn’t turn away.
I should let my heart stay
open at Christmas.
They were only
words:
Words
meant to create
emotions,
share feelings,
verbally prompt us
to enjoy each other.
Instead,
remembering the words,
knowing how they impacted you,
makes me feel
like I’ve trampled
on flowers,
squished ladybugs
under my heel,
turned a magnifying glass’s beam
on an ant hill,
thrown frogs in the road,
torn the wings
off of butterflies.
That is not
who I am.
That is not
what I would do.
And yet,
With my mouth,
my lips,
my tongue,
I did.
I can always tell/
when my heart is hurting. I/
won’t write anything.
Somewhere tonight,
a son stayed home,
helping his mommy.
The elderly lady moved
through her house,
finding recycled gifts
which she gleefully packaged
to give to her friends.
Her son followed behind,
lifting boxes of lights
and ornaments
and bows
and presents
to help her.
He had friends
laughing
and singing
and looking at
the bright lights of the city.
His eyes sometimes brimmed
with tears
as he thought
of them
and the fun
he could have had.
They asked him
to go.
They offered him
a ride.
He had, at first,
said yes.
But then,
sadly,
he turned
them
down.
He wanted to go.
He wanted to be
with good folk,
like himself.
He wanted to look at
the nativities
and twinkling trees,
and hear the laughter of children
and adults
and the quiet whisper
of people
reflecting
on the gift of the Savior.
He wanted to get to know
more people,
and feel their friendship
and the joy of the season
and give them friendship
and comfort
and joy,
as he knew
he could.
As he knew
he had.
Instead, he did
what he was asked.
He didn’t ever want
to hurt anybody.
He didn’t want anyone
to feel rejected.
He wept
at the thought
that he bruised tender hearts.
Still,
he knew
and knows
he followed his heart.
Still,
given the choice,
this boy
will
always
try to help
his mommy.
Especially
at Christmas.
What day is today?/
Is it worth losing a day/
to add years to life?
It’s so much better/
getting morning hard when the/
catheter is out.
At Jah hospital,/
Brand-new experiences./
Duuuuuuuude! I did inhale!
