Every single little thing
and big thing
looming, pounding, festering
needing done
in one swift moment. . .
this life, this breath
each is a gift
that, in itself,
needs no bettering. . .
so, be still,
or move,
however you can find the love,
the joy, the fun–
and take it all
down off the shelf
and broad afield. . .
And–here’s the deal–
some good will come,
as you forge on–
no matter how the petty voices
might respond,
or how dissuading
their under-understanding comment.
Oh, broadly spreading buckeye tree,
you are my friend!
You lay a cozy place for me,
where I can lean or climb or sit,
and modulate the bright sunshine,
breathe,
and slowly become one with you,
as I linger here a bit,
and let my mind
relax and roam,
as thoughts stream through
upon my life and on the world,
until I’ve deeply settled in,
and made some better sense of it.
The springtime rises, ever green–
gentle, blooming, beautiful
incomparably powerful
a world that lay in dormant rest
shoots up again
to muddy-lush,
to make it seem as if all life
would ever move this strong and up
and flowerful. . .
And life that’s been hidden,
and pummeled by the wind and cold and rain
may not all want or know
the way to reemerge,
but moves instead
to dry and shrink,
then float or soar
away from here–
Momentous,
even while
also henceforth
to our fleshy, watery mortal eyes
entirely invisible.
The springtime rises, ever green
gentle, blooming, beautiful, , ,
incomparably powerful. . .
a world that lay in dormant rest
shoots up again
to muddy-lush,
to make it seem as if all life
would ever move this strong and up
and flowerful. . .
And life that’s been
quite still and hidden,
but pummeled by the chilling rain and wind
may not all want
or even know
the way to reemerge,
And those that don’t
may move instead
to dry and shrink,
then float or soar
away from here–
Momentous,
even while
also henceforth
to our fleshy, watery, mortal eyes
entirely invisible
A mood. . .
a need . . .
a purpose felt,
thoughts and emotions
let to flow–
some out may bleed.
A pen that scratches,
rolls,
or drags upon the toothy paper
a squishy colored squeak,
a jotted word,
a note,
a pithy sound bite anecdote,
a much loved tale,
a fresh pressed novel,
a lofty tome, that, in the reading,
takes a week.
A blend of breath
and fervent wild
or silent, mild
stretch of heartbeat,
silver dreams
and dry gray thought,
a script writ down
in quite few words,
which, for its size,
says quite a lot,
and which travels deftly
and apace
on sun’s bright beams
on snow’s cold flakes
or rain’s bulging noisy-falling drops
or curly, swirly puffs of wind
that corkscrew kites,
or tickle or threaten
toes or fingers,
and/or nearly all the rest
of everything,
you’ve got. . .
a thing,
that, while it might
in the end, seem
flighty, short,
perks up your ears,
raises skin bumps,
with neighboring translucent hairs,
and makes you listen past its end,
having made you feel
you’ve heard one great big. whole wide world
somehow condensed and danced
onto a spot
upon the head
of one small pin.
Strength
where is it?
Your mind,
your legs?
Your arms,
your words,
your music?
Or maybe in your unique charms?
that shine in smiles you share in spades?
Your skill,
your intuition, logic?
Calm acceptance?
Force of will?
Your prayers, your meditation,
those you spoke or did just once
or the ones returned to again, again?
For reasons that could not be fathomed–
not even by your closest friends?
Or your might your strength somehow reside
in your
mindful, melting, merging with the moment,
or just your keeping of the watch
in way so distant past relax,
you’d have to call it zen?
Or your simple scanning, seeking practice,
in which you notice
all of this,
and then breathe in, breathe out
to find the extra noise,
and slowly welcome,
and/or clear it?
Or could your strength perhaps reside
in something more elusive yet?. . .
To know this, stop,
and let your heart beat on
if you still yourself enough,
as you turn in down inside of you,
to sort out the racket
of gurgles, growls and
spongy breathing lungs. . .
then maybe you will hear it–
OR
could it be
in that true but sconced locality
more secret than
your unfelt or unseen
hair or hide?—
that ethereal,
universal part of you
we see mostly in the way you seem
and what you do,
which yields us
but a fraction of a clue,
and which, for the sake of simple elegance,
we call your very spirit?
I want absolutely every
color of the rainbow–
right now,
and gotten all at once,
and also,
each savored plain, all by itself:
red, blue, green, purple,
orange, yellow.
Yet, what this asks of me to do
despite snows, winds,
stones, floods, and fires,
is to open up my frightened heart
to the sum of hues that I desire
and then simply to let it in
where every fiber of my soul
can swallow.
