my shaking hands and long sighs
for who i am, i feed on delusions
that someday the bow in my chest will fall
and a new dawn will arrive at the door
the weight i carry- of emotions, stronger than waves
waves that are sinking me under their weight
i close my eyes and teleport to secret gardens
i'm too weary to bear this pain
Rhonda’s rigid routines sit hard in concrete
flexibility to her is nothing sweet
everything in her mind is a must at a certain o’clock
leave the house at seven-fifty after a hard door lock
Eight o’clock, arrive at work on time
eleven fifty-two, it is time to dine
after work have a green martini or two
frozen lasagna for supper, sliver of bread too
go to bed each night at nine on the dot
on Saturday report to the used car lot
Church every Sunday, no matter what
Rhonda was stuck in a self-imposed must-do, routine rut.
The foxes in my garden
Arrive at night to play
They had their fill of chicken
And so decide to stay
I crouch down on my haunches
And look into her eyes
The little one so trusting
She’s like her mother wise
I see how she has taught them
To fend well for themselves
But only Little Roxy
Has me so overwhelmed
She comes to me at midnight
For honey in a bowl
As I crouch down and watch her
I know my heart she stole.
The other three just run around
They eat and scatter fast
But Roxy and her mother
Make this encounter last
Love, he says, sounds like a door
closing softly in a room built for your name—
that measured click holding its breath,
the air swelling in its pause,
as if the walls themselves leaned in
to listen for what would not come.
Later, he becomes a man
rewriting himself in a language
he can almost hear but never speak—
his phone dim on the table beside him,
your name a faint tide
appearing, receding
before the edge of his resolve,
each unsent word heavier than speech.
This is the archaeology of want:
he dusts the edges of your gestures,
catalogues the tilt of your cup
before your mouth finds the sentence,
traces the seam
where your hand once crossed his skin,
keeping each relic
as if it could shift the sky’s design.
And perhaps this is why
when physicists speak of the force
that threads galaxies together,
I think of him learning
to love in the way light bends—
how it travels centuries
to arrive at a place already changed,
still carrying the warmth
of where it began.
Igneous rocks moltened, crystallized, solidified
rising towards the surface like a hot furnace
Volcanic activity of the soul, conundrum of the heart
rule out the mind and the body facilitates, erupts !
One transformative honest experience and we
arrive at a gestalt moment of truth, we are
both energies, ... "explosive and implosive"
filled with adroitness and clumsiness alike
Profound changes in ones individual essence
can be an awakening of great disturbance
Within the ring of fire, boundaries co-exist
illumination is feasible if it is undeniable !
Magnetic moments in the soul reinforced
through our dreams, hopes, and fears....
Owning both destructive and creative powers
our souls do make choices each and every day
Both volcanoes and souls contain openings
and when the day of reckoning is near
we either choose to lay dormant or explode
it all depends upon our soul's barcode...
Amongst spruce oblivious of the way,
As I admire the wonder all abound.
Birds fly above dancing their own ballet
All spruce trees spread their fragrance all around.
The compact wood is hushed before night fall,
Arrive at a bridge shocked at what I see
The chances of crossing are very small.
Trying anything is indeed no key.
The bridge is thin, its boards are worn and weak,
Yet still I stride with steps so bold and free,
A goodly warden approaches to speak,
I stop so afraid and wanted to flee.
Fear grips the warden, he utters a call,
"That's not safe! So beware, lest you should fall."
Place 3
I know there's something going on, no doubt
I'm wise enough to know what you're about
It's not pleasant dear, you must live with fear
That's sure to ruin time left on earth here.
I will keep my findings all to myself
You be the judge and jury to yourself
Maybe you have caused folk despair always
I don't know how you find peace in your days.
The day is coming that will seek you out
It’s something that you have to think about
We all arrive at the heavenly gate
Think about that before it gets too late.
Worst of all, is getting away with it
How do you sleep when stars and moon are lit
The man in the moon, angels in the sky
Must sadly shed tears of sorrow from high.
Heres looking right through to your heart
You who thinks yourself to be very smart
I won't name and shame, much as I'd like too
Know that someone's got the measure of you.
“Some folk may deceive folk upon Earth, but never God, He observes.”
It was true that I didn't have much ambition, but there should be a place for those without wings,
a better place than the usual one, where dreams flow like rivers at dusk,
how could anyone enjoy being woken up at 6:30 in the morning by an unrelenting clock,
to jump out of bed like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, without a script,
to swallow breakfast on the run, like a river pouring into the sea without knowing its fate,
to go to the bathroom and brush teeth and hair, like a cold, mechanical ritual,
to battle traffic, a chaotic dance of cars and horns on crowded streets,
just to arrive at a place where, essentially, you make a lot of money for someone else,
and you're asked to be grateful that you're allowed to sell your time in pieces.
But where is the place for dreamers, for those who walk unknown and free paths,
a place where mornings are not dictated by clocks, but by the song of morning birds,
where value is not measured in money, but in moments lived in harmony with oneself,
where gratitude is not demanded, but naturally springs from the joy of being and creating,
a place where each day is a blank canvas, and we are the artists of our own destinies.
Treat yourself, why don't you
Only you know the sacrifice
And how short life can be
Seek the small pleasures before
They escape you forever
Happiness is on a plate
Annotate your life with fantastic
Stories of immense
Hope and adventure
Bravely respond to life's challenges
Recuperate when necessary
Organise and rest
Weave peace into your schedule
Never compromise on self-care
But be generous. Outrageously so..
Encounters are opportunities
Anxiety is the thief of your joy
Never let the loud noises dictate.
Silence your spirit, surrender to God
Whatever good things
Arrive at your table
Festivities or
Failures
Learn every lesson
Embrace each with gratitude
Seasons mean growth; under or above ground
Trapped inside this dim-lit place
Six-by-nine cell of inner space
In a cage of ribs, locked away
My heart did time, held at bay
But then it hatched a plan, all on its own
And slipped out through those bars of bone
Escape Heartist, like Houdini in chains
How the trick works, I cannot explain
Like that fugitive from Alcatraz of old
Covered in grease for a swim in the cold
My heart broke free, it’s on its way
It should arrive at your door today
Will you take it in, keep it safe and sound?
Or will you stomp it into the ground?
Or will you send it away by speaking true
Those four little words: I don't love you
Love me Father
For everything I do for you
Monday's are the day
That I wash your people's feet
Every Tuesday
We do a feast for Father's people
In the morning
I go fishing for fish together with
My Father
Then we needed to clean the fish
It is a horrible job to do
But it has to be than
Then we will barbecue the fish
God's people arrive at noon
For the feast
My father offer the fish with
A dinner roll
And to drink he gives
A nice bottle of cold wine
At 2:00PM my Father's People
Finish eating their meal
We all said goodbye to everybody
And we all went home
Wednesday I helped my Father to
Baptize the young mother's babies
With holy water
None of the babies cried
Thursday I had done the bible study
For my Father's people
All my Father's people
Were interested in learning about
The bible
A second opinion may clarify things
Or possibly cause some confusion,
For doctors who do not agree will, no doubt,
Arrive at a different conclusion.
A patient must therefore decide who to trust
And to follow that recommendation,
Though when two so-called “experts” have differing views,
It makes sense to feel some hesitation.
It’s better, I guess, to have choices to make
And some down time before a decision,
For it helps to feel good with the doctor you choose
Way before you’re prepped for an incision.
As if startled awake
from fitfull sleep
Of dreams both cartoonish
Yet with meaning deep
My life having passed
as this very repose
A young woman
Now grand dame all as I dozed
For I must have been asleep
At the wheel
Alternately engaging
disengaging at will
One eightying along I sped through my life seventh decade now coming to pass
How will I cram in
All this life left to live before I run out of gas
Hey you young motorist
Yes I'm talking to you
I once thought of myself
As Immortal too
One day you'll arrive here as
Sure as night follows day
So listen to the words
I am moved to say
Make it count slay regret at its birth
Live fully and thoughtfully for all that your worth
To arrive at destination (well done)
Oh, my sweet September, I have loved you all my days.
Please allow me to count just a few of the ways.
Each time you arrive at the Crack of Autumn,
I am arrested and feel like I belong. And the
sound of your three syllable name echoes
like a romantic song.
I come alive to the pleasantry of your presence.
And your 30 day abode initiates the season
With your captivating and divine fragrance.
Winter is a seasonal beauty; with her sparkling twinkling snow
Her frosting turns the landscape into a communal wedding cake.
She instigates thoughts in me I have not had since last winter.
I am inclined to make hot chili with jalapeno peppers.
Something hot to warm me inside while I marvel at the outside.
Fairies enter my mind as I stare into the all-encompassing whiteness.
I want to settle down with a good book and snuggle into my blankets.
But I like my job so another state of mind pushes this one out.
I locate my mittens, boots, scarf, fluffy coat and a face mask.
a face mask helps me avoid pneumonia in winter.
I slather myself with heavy coverings, so I can scrape my car.
the wipers are frozen tightly to the windshield
Watch out for black ice, a warning from the radio station.
As I maneuver my car out of my driveway I stare at winter.
Her beauty is disarming, but I understand her chameleon treachery.
I will be gritting my teeth until I arrive at my destination.
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