A difference for
the young and the old….
Most of the people the young loved
are still alive.
A difference for
the young and the old….
Most of the people the young loved
are still alive.
Sooner or later
each of us asks
did I have a purpose?
What was I born to?
I had such a moment this morning.
Each of my life’s 2. 22 billion seconds
had to have gone exactly as it did
to bring me to this,
to experience the flock of warblers
that burst out of the sky
into the middle of my morning, singing
of their wild and precious lives–
up from Mexico, or Central America,
bonded in common struggle from all those days aloft,
looking for food, now,
for grass and moss for a nest.
The things prayers are made of,
for this moment.
Full moon sliding fast over the water,
enough to read by,
be burned by,
rolling bright and cool
to the west, painting
a wrinkled, twinkled path
on restless waves of
aching blue turned dark,
reflecting clouds and stars.
Magical island nights, but doomed.
As the moon waned
a little more each night,
so did the magic.
Precious, but fragile.
When the sands
of our deeper selves
shift, slide, scald
at 3 a.m.,
when buried grief
slithers out again,
the night holds its
breath a moment,
exhales and the Eastern
Safe again, we wake.
Strange things stir,
mazes, links, leaps
of magic and yearning,
There is no passion so pure
as when it springs
from the loins of
an ancient earth, from the night.
Secrets lurk between
every second on the clock,
there, then gone, then back…
neither light nor shadow,
but mere potential.
Hiding in plain sight.
shifting with the sand,
teasing us to pull
them into the light,
poisoning us until
I wanted to be Steve Jobs
I wanted to be Joni Mitchell
I wanted to be Leonard Cohen
I wanted to be Carl Sagan,
I wanted to be that person, they’ll say,
“yeah, whatever happened to him?”
The way people do, about certain
Rare, shining talents, like Joni, or Steve,
Mysteries that can’t be explained.
This body’s nothing but
Flitting from who knows
what to who
I like how we
guess about our
It shows optimism.
We’re nothing if not plucky.
My own guess
is that the truths
are greater than anything
from fear and need.
I could be wrong.
But we’re here.
That’s all we know
Until Nature washes us away.
Wait with me,
we’ll find out.
Spring is so fast, so eager.
Changes come before I’ve absorbed yesterday’s.
A minute ago, the maple was nearly bare,
thousands of tiny spinners fallen on my windshield
like sawdust under a table saw.
This morning, new leaves dance in the breeze,
awkward teenagers already, swaying to their own music,
turning the bright sunshine green.
Have I missed something important?
I wish the world had a rewind button, or at least a pause option.
But sadly, we drift along like a cork in a stream,
never knowing what’s down below, never staying anywhere.
Only able to see a blurred impression of the scene whizzing by.
So, yes, I’m torn between the ineffable beauty of now
and endless wonders around the each bend of the stream.
That makes any cork an unreliable partner.
I cannot slow the stream, but
I’ll pause on my own, breathe deeply, still my mind.
When I eat, I will really taste the food; savor the wine.
Miss no opportunity to be kind.
See the joy in another’s eyes.
I’ll watch the young leaves dance and try to
imagine the shape of the wind, feel the fingers of the invisible ocean.
And when I laugh, it will be from the soles of my feet,
and when I’m sad, I’ll not be afraid to plumb the depths.
And when I love, I will hold nothing back, even
When, as is inevitable, there is pain.
I intend to be fully alive, to observe more and better.
That’s all I can do.
That’s all any of us can do.
After all, we’ll be dead soon enough.
Sometimes you just don’t know what’s going to come out of that old man’s mouth…In a hospital room he probably wasn’t walking out of…late on a February Sunday afternoon. We waited, though. And then he just started, with no preamble.
“I just like them. I just like women. Well, some. I have preferences. Who doesn’t?
“And I just let them see the admiration and respect. And some, a few of them, like me back, like they’re surprised, you know. Grateful in a way… for the honesty, I guess, although that’s not in my mind, like a tactic. It wouldn’t be honest that way, would it? So, no games. They’re tired of the games and bullshit, too. I had to practice that, though.
But, if there’s not that mutual ‘liking’, no spontaneous shudder, you just back up a step, be polite and move on. Have a little dignity.
“And sometimes they show me some appreciation in tangible ways, too. They look after me for a while, making sure I’m appreciated, and that doesn’t mean sex at all. Just liking and wanting to do for. Boys, there’s no one who can take care of you like a grateful, honest woman. And it’s nice to be treated well.
“There’s some of the other kind of appreciation, of course, and if it happens it happens.
“It’s my favorite thing, but you have to let nature take its course or it’s not as good. That’s what you young guys don’t understand. Too big a hurry so that you miss the main show.
“The best thing is when you have the sudden shudders but also respect. And that means nobody’s a superior person, like a boss to the other. When you are equal in some ways and content to let the other’s talents shine when they need to. No false pride.
“That doesn’t mean everything’s smooth, either. You can be terribly lonely or angry sometimes, when things aren’t working and you know it. That’s when someone else can look good. But with luck, you don’t break the bond between you two who click.It’s so easy to.
“But two people like that? That’s sweet.”
He laughed and coughed a little.
“And however you express that between you–and even if it doesn’t go on forever–nobody gets hurt. Not at all. Just the opposite. It’s a permanent special thing. And some people only have the memory of it to live on, but at least they have that.”
Our father had a coughing fit and lay back in the hospital bed exhausted, but with a slight smile and a distant look at the hazy hill a couple of miles away. We looked at each other.
An electronic chime sounded in the hall. A recorded voice announced the end of visiting hours. We hated to leave, as tomorrow wasn’t a guarantee.
“You know what, though?” he said, turning back to us. “I just realized something. About that second kind of appreciation…
Here it came. We caught each other’s eyes. Raised an eyebrow like Spock.
“It just dawned on me that despite a number of opportunities, I only really found that exact thing with one person. I’m pretty sure I could have found more, but I didn’t see the point. I’m a lazy man, and that sounded like too much work. But in any case… I stopped at the first one. The one that clicked like that…
He suddenly realized the night was closing in. He wanted to see one more dawn with Mom. It showed.
“She’ll be back in a minute. No need to tell your mother what I said about her. OK? She’s stressed enough. And if I say something too nice now, the shock might kill her.
“We like to watch sunrises together.”
There was that thin smile again. A little sad around the corners. Tired from the chemo and the pain. He looked at us, waiting.
We nodded our old conspirator smiles.
We’d heard this routine before, making us promise not to tell mom something.
We would ignore this one, too.
He knows we will.
He’s counting on it.
“People will do anything,
no matter how absurd,
to avoid facing their own souls.”
Give one yielding hour,
All forgot in the moment.
Pretend to care not, if you must.
But you may be believed not.
In that hour, completely.
Then turn away,
Step again onto the twisting path.
Choice is loss.
“I know men who are healthier at fifty than they’ve ever been before, because a lot of their fear is gone.”
“Tonight the first fall rain washes away my sly distance.
I have decided to blame no one for my life.
This water falls like a great privacy.
Letters sink into the desk,
The desk sinks away, leaving an intelligence
Slowly learning to talk of its own suffering.
The muttering of thunder is a gift
That reverberates in the roof of the mouth.
Another gift is a child’s face in a dark room
I see as I check the house during the storm.
My life is a blessing, a triumph, a car racing through the rain.
What if we weren’t the responsible ones, for a change?
What if we weren’t the ones who let someone else screw up and
Kept on doing the right things?
What if we … could just run away for a while—just for a while—
To some anonymous, peaceful place where email was banned, the phone
Didn’t ring, the air was warm and we were all alone for an afternoon?
Where my heart didn’t ache,
Where there weren’t the old problems and worries,
Where we could be carefree children again, with no grownup cares?
This old house is made of wood and paint and memories, but
Lately, the sense that our time here will end has hovered on my shoulder,
A faint melancholy of knowing that one day I will walk out one last time,
Hand the keys to someone who won’t know any of it.
That spot in the dining room wall where a teenage
Tantrum left a divot in the plaster from a chair tossed in anger.
Where the same child discovered the internet, found a girl
In California and talked up a huge long-distance phone bill.
Where B&B guests gathered from around the world
To chat at the table over Bismarks and sausages and coffee on
Their brief swing through this old house, and our lives.
What are the odds
Of that one seed
Falling at that precise instant
(Not a second earlier, or later)
On that particular day
On just the right side, facing the sun,
In just the spot where there was an opening
Where there just happened to be enough soil
Where the mason had left a gap last year
Because it was time for lunch and
He was in a hurry.
When the breeze randomly moved in just the right strength,
In just the right direction
And stopped at the right moment.
So that when the rain came by
in just the right amount
And then, just in time,
The impossible became probable,
And mere potential became actual.
One seed out of millions.
"He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life." ...James Joyce
author of many genres; no one likes being stationary
Celaine Charles ~ My journey as a writer ~ CLICK "Steps In Between" for past posts
"Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land." (Carl Sagan)
writing when the rest of Denver is sleeping
So sick of trying to keep up!
New Home for Ionwhitepoetry
“The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne." --Chaucer
Emergency lighting for times of darkness and fear
Good things are going to happen@Mehakkhorana
by Kelly Lewis
seeking sublime surrender
THE DRIVELLINGS OF TWATTERSLEY FROMAGE