While Digging

With a mental spade in hand,

I broke ground in a volatile land.

 

It is the sort of tale we often forget,

when suddenly life simply won’t relent.

 

I crossed over into a forgotten meadow,

only to find I’d still carried a shadow.

 

There is a reality in knowing the right word

to help move beyond what we might think absurd.

 

It is a choice,

to dig.

 

While the atmosphere around us seems trite,

there is a powerful settling in dirt contrite.

 

Seems the space may no longer feel quite clean,

once the reality of our lives become serene.

 

Oh stop again,

for the dig.

 

Seems the further inside the realm of disdain,

less easily is the worker’s ability to complain.

 

Seams in the environmental cause will display

while every last item of loss has fallen his way.

 

Though the earth has a forever sort of fallen ground

gives credence to the prison in which we are bound.

 

We cannot ever escape the tone of the suddenly frail,

its competency so built upon retelling a scorching tale.

 

Instead we dig, we do try to compel a story,

written by ourselves to discover just what glory

 

lies in the dig,

where uncovered,

 

we fall victim to knowing time is a circle, a place

whereby all of our insecurities likely keep pace,

 

while digging,

in search of a likely capsule.

 

The ground itself in however it may swell,

always uneven, one might never retell.

 

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If In Our Quiet Moments

If not for the power of greed,

Have I been a loose cannon of need.

 

If only while our world crumbles beyond,

We still might use laughter to carry on.

 

If well before the dawn of new civilization,

Would we still use ignorance to define a nation.

 

If while this short time we have to persevere

Could our lives be simpler, to wish less severe.

 

If I might all of my mistakes be solemnly heard,

Maybe then peace of mind seem far less absurd.

 

If by my neighbors hand I reach to embrace,

A lovely reality of knowing His my only Grace.

 

If when every soul around me were to smile,

Could we live and carry on strong a sweet mile.

 

If while I wonder the words my mind does employ

Might have value to the eyes and ears to offer joy.

 

Then might I breathe a smooth discourse in life

All of which lends reprieve to the burden of strife.

We Might Yearn a Child’s Eye

While we ran the backyards,

the slow walk through the dandelions

pollened by summer’s bees,

we did think alone,

the same way we,

the same notions, we may

have today, the same wonderment

of the psychological nature,

compels our being,

causes our heart to swoon,

allows for the time to stand still,

we can all be in love

when we know the answer is

truth in the manner of an eternal Grace.

I do know love, I like to say,

much better than yesterday,

though a child,

I knew love unconditionally

until one day …

 

We wander beyond our lost innocence

a compelling stir

of reality and fantasy,

suddenly knowing why our tears

could last forever,

or at least until

we are told that is

good enough,

life goes on,

time to move forward,

hold onto memory,

but never ever recall the same.

 

As a little boy,

I used to watch cars slip up the hill,

a winter’s night, the street light,

snow filled the neighborhood,

and my ten year old self

safely tucked inside a picture window,

could watch the world survive a winter’s storm.

I would often wonder about the people inside,

if they knew I was watching,

if they could tell even in that stormy moment,

they would never be alone,

lost and frozen in the cold,

the ice of the street

would prevent them from

being in their own home,

the comfort of home,

putting aside all of the day’s

concerns,

having a martini,

perhaps a cigar,

and maybe a little bit of fantasy,

thinking about that woman at the bar,

and wondering again,

did she really smile,

or was that simply nerves.

 

I once left a hillside campground,

the whole walk worrying about fire,

and later ran back up the trail,

crossed the mountain creek

we liked to call it,

a little stream of shale and rocks,

gurgling along Woods’s Hill,

a memory,

when I returned to camp,

the fires had begun to ignite,

I felt like a boy scout

stamping out our ignorance.

 

I remember the day he died,

my world ended just a little bit,

enough for me to know,

reality was a far greater burden,

than the easy bliss of childhood fantasy.

I remember thinking then,

I would never worry about dwelling

on the past,

because nowadays,

there is too much excitement ahead.

 

I never forgot you man,

always on my mind,

I’ve often wondered if your childhood,

was ever so easily defined.

 

In Shadows

images

Where my reality lives, I sometimes never know,

depends upon the breathing,

a slight rasp might mean finding an edge,

a smooth inhale is the sign of reaching an end.

I do know though,

when I glance to my side,

in a sunlit morning, I can see myself,

that part of me no one might ever understand,

yet it contains me,

all of me beyond the physical attributes,

that sometime do define who I am.

 

I like to hide from him,

as much as possible because the possibilities are endless

when I go about thinking all the mistakes he contains,

when the brilliance of my mind let’s loose,

and there is no where to turn except to jump in,

wait it out until sunset, at least then I might disappear.

 

I wish there might be the occasion when in a fleeting moment of forgetfulness,

he could gesture an implied consent,

a suggestive attribute of worthiness,

yet instead,

he lingers, waiting, watching, knowing,

what it is I might be wondering.

 

* photo found on Pinterest

Sun Streaked Sky on Easter Morning

sunstreak

We watched the sunrise on Easter morning.

Crystal clear, God cast hands across the sky,

lifted clouds; memory of shadowing

ills, ¬†sweet brilliance to enhance our why …

When last night our energy seemed quite low

we soon might now in the passing of hours

resolve eternal the fears we all know.

Distant the annals of shame do tower

that streak nearby the coloring high winds.

Our lives today might renew forever

if God in sheer beauty and grace rescinds

the troubled child, whose antics in fever

recall our sorrows and human failure,

while the morning sunlight cries our future.