A star
I wish upon,
although
it’s very far. . .
Who knows
if it even ever listens
or if it’s deaf,
as its point light
amid the whirling night sky glistens?
Nonetheless,
upon this distant star,
I wish I may
not end right here,
but see a dawn,
another day;
I wish I might
understand,
not just be understood,
ere close I eye
upon whiche’er
bright maze of stars
I shall chance, in awe, to gaze
as it will rise,
when falls
my final night.
Sometimes it hurts
when I don’t like
and cannot hold
that I don’t like
the way that I’ve been treated.
Hurters don pants,
but, others of them, skirts–
some bludgeon blunt–
some prick with spikes–
some, passive hostile humbleness
and others egotistical, conceited. . .
first I must breathe,
when lashing back won’t work,
so to conceive
a common core humanity,
seek deep, sort out
to feel if ’tis best,
in each such case,
to detach
or strive to reconcile,
so wholeness is, at last, restored,
at such a time
when this dread storm
has blown right past
and can be deemed completed.
Do not look back
(Well, some say–that. . .)
And, OK yes,
I sort of get
that forward movement
is meant to be
our main direction.
And yet, you lack
if ne’er you do
hold up and view
the backward-looking
looking glass.
For,
so much of our instructive light
shines its very, very best,
to make stuff show
from different points of view–
sometimes sharper, other softer,
but always more wisely in the scheme of things,
when pause is ta’en,
to consider things
not just
when and where they are,
but in schemes grander
during a breather
of reflection.
Look at the birdie!
Don’t blink!
And say cheese!
Be warm
but make sure
that each muscle
and bone
in your form
appears lively and warm,
while all the while,
in suspension,
you freeze,
for who knows
which future subsets of people
or posterities.
A shot at perfection
not quite got,
despite oods preparation
and hope escalation,
making it easy to get
the concept
and yen
for the proliferation
of ephemeral selfies.
There is the red and green and brown and gold,
fall shrinking leaves,
which people beautifully
that pair
of Western Redbush trees
that, catching slanting autumn light,
shone from behind,
do kiss my eyes. . .
These trees I see as friends,
as I walk
and make my morning rounds,
and, as I see the ways they ever change,
a perpetual tickle and delight
to entertain my brain,
with each day’s and micro-season’s
special guise.
But still, there’s something
in their beauty,
I feel I’m missing,
without capturing
in oil, charcoal or in pixil
to get inside the way
they feel and grow. . .
I get big hints,
from passing close
and breathing their same air,
but it’s something that with them
and all of you,
as skies move quick
toward winter’s wet and white
from summer blue,
I have this begging ache
truly to better know
and share.
Yes, you can sing of what you do
and what comes to you
that feels blue,
and absolutely wrong. . .
But,
do that only,
and you’ll draw out
the sad, afraid and mad and lonely. . .
It may be time
to sound a different, joyful kind of chime,
that resonates through every note you hit quite right
and lets rise far and high and wide
a very different kind of song.
When things get so cramped
or so expanded,
find a way that you can
spread them out
or else, embrace them,
into a spacing
that will mend. . .
accept the mending,
and resulting calm
and understanding. . .
breathe it,
receive it,
think it,
feel it,
someway write or sing
or dance or speak it. . .
make it make sense
to you,
even if not a single other soul
can understand it,
let it be,
and let it grow. . .
restore it to your own special
sort of flow. . .
And maybe, at some spot
along the way,
you see if you can re-speak it,
shape it, form it,
a comfy, squishy blob of clay,
in such a manner, shape or form
that others join
and smile and play
along with you,
and help you mold it
and make big sense too,
which keeps you company
all through your day,
your night,
and through each next
wonderful and blessed morn
resplendent with
the sun’s each rising ray.
