High Cue…
A curtain open
The Phantom of the Opera
Cue my brokenness
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High Cue
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Damage
These creaking bones,
Whose support go
Unappreciated
All these years.
These spots fleck
My skin like dandelions.
My face requited
Their affections.
This knob on my foot
Offends me;
By days end,
Expresses its disdain.
Those unseen organs
Play their stanzas.
Lungs like bagpipes.
Heart, a kettle drum.
Ah, for the age of grace-
The grace of age.
Life’s stage,
Curtains.
Damn age.
(It’s not that bad, really.)
Active Reattachment
Virtual reality,
real virtue see.
Shorten your stride,
cut off your pride.
See the other
beyond the clutter.
This I pray:
God help me stay…
right here,
right hear.
On Finding a Rhythm for 2019
I pray the arrhythmia of 2018 will shut down. I’m not talking government, unless it is my self-governing murmurs. Sure, the beat goes on, whether I feel the pounding or not. The heart is more than tissue, more than musculature. Mine? Well, do I will it to thrum? Nope.
Anyway, age and mileage bring with them more awareness of lack of control. The Serenity Prayer will be in the queue, yet there are aspects of control still in place. I chose to awake a bit early. I chose to cream my coffee. I chose to sit and read, think, write, and pray. What other things can I chose? How about you?
We can slap a label on our new and improved choices of 2019…Resolutions. Breaking out in hives yet? You and I are free to change up our choices, but do we believe it?
There are some change ups I desire this year. The usual deflate my gut and pump up my pecks, sure. Less Little Debbie, and more rabbit food, yes. Give the word ‘budget’ more weight in our daily operations, fo sho. But what I see as higher on the shelf is relational changes. Starting with God, and working my way down through the village.
You see, I would rather hermit myself (In this house? Pshaw), read, write, and skip the arithmetic. My poetry will protect me, right? What a crock. I struggle with reactive attachment, and in this house of adoption, there is plenty of that to go around. If you don’t know what RA is, the Reader’s Digest version is “please come closer…get away from me.”
So, about 2019, here are a few of me changes by the grace of God.
-Be more of an active listener, meaning eye-contact, and attentive body posture. Oh, and not formulating an impressive response while appearing to hear. Uh, Jerry, remember there’s a difference between hearing and listening.
-Touching, hugging, when appropriate.
-Share my thoughts. Use words. Audible words. Like open and shut my mouth while my vocal chords rub each other.
-See the good in others, and let them know.
-Be thankful to God and others in my life.
-Initiate junk. Anything. Put a dent in 2019 for crying out loud! (Thanks Mom, for that little phrase. Miss you.)
Here are some of my relational reso resol resolu resolutions. You got any?
When 2020 rolls around, I hope we can all look back and find better connections, and a splash more love.
Here’s to 2019!
Ahead…Ache
The throb huddled
in the back corner.
Eyes spliced open,
no alarm,
except dull pain.
Thoughts, analyzation.
“Not enough water?”
“Caffeine deprivation?”
“Dead pillow, flat?”
Imagine that.
Did I try to hoard worries
instead of thinking
them through?
Did I stuff them,
choking off synapses?
By thoughts alone
can the ache dissipate?
By thinking only,
do the knots loosen?
“Have you prayed?”
I’ve thought about it.
“Why don’t you simply
think your thoughts
toward Me? I know
every one of them.”
Then I cast my thoughts
toward God.
The bundle in back
of my head softened,
dispersed.
“Don’t fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God’s wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It’s wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life.” Philippians 4:6,7 The Message
One Resolution
It’s not that a year is new and all,
but looking back is a free fall
of hair, long, with strands of grey,
sprinkled, as if to say:
remember me, remember when?
I used to search for them, pluck them,
Now I comb through to see
the silver lined memories of you and me.
Like tinsel, they reflect, stand out.
Yesterday you said this is what it’s about.
Owning age, thankful, line after line,
Mapping our faces, tracking our time.
Under this sun there is nothing really new,
Except our hearts gleaning what is true.
I will run my fingers through.
Yes, I will run my fingers through.
For Barbara January 2019
Birthmarks
Peal up shadows,
and drape them over
the deck rails.
The sun
will dry them
like raisins.
Gather them wrinkled.
Don’t iron out
the mystery,
but leave a trail
back to the Light
that birthed them.
The Death of a Poet and Other Clichés
I will write a poem
if it kills me.
Even if the line
breaks me.
Even if love
counts its ways.
Even when a
lesser path emerges.
Even if I lie
etherized on a table.
Even if roses are red,
with each petal a cliché.
Even if to be or not to be
isn’t the question.
Even if you tread
softly on my dreams.
Even if there’s water
everywhere but no drop.
Even if I wander,
lonely as a cloud.
Even if no word
rhymes or I
double over in
entendre,
this is a poem,
and I live on.
Demure to the Rocks
This is my means of survival.
Highlighted bookends.
Adjusted paperweights.
Arranged refrigerator magnets.
If I can simply keep things
from moving, I’ll know.
Fixed positions, steady on
this blue blurry ball.
Give me some space,
a bit of time,
and this continuum
will seem like
an unimpeded stream.
No noise or crescendo
lifting their praises.
Not a peep…
Then the rocks cry out.
The Most Interesting Man in the World
This one made me smile.
Yeah, you might have seen the commercials. I think they’re advertising a beer, anyway, I got to thinking… Would I really like to be the “most” in anything?
Even the most interesting man has to accomplish the most uninteresting of duties. Take a leak. Brush his teeth. Eat some eggs.
I caught myself thinking “I want to be the most humble man in the world.” I don’t know if that is a paradox or an oxymoron. Maybe it’s simply moronic.
Maybe I want to be the most “telling-it-slant-poet” in the world. I would lay down lines which echo for a hundred or so years.
Being the most… Most. Most. Most. What a funny word. The more I ponder it, the sillier it sounds. Say ‘most’ out loud enough times and well, what do you think?
Honestly, have you ever met anyone aspiring to be the most UNinteresting person in the…
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