I am me.
The only person I can be.
That is OK–

I’m really meant to be
exactly as I am–
yes, just this way.

This is now.

In the past,
there was a “then,”
I grow
bits different
every moment,
and therefore,
have and am and know
a different me each tiny second,
though there’s a solid, strong,
deep beating heart constant. . .

And tomorrow
I will be a different
and a better me,
and I look forward
to when I and thou
shall cross and smile
in yet another
life encounter,

with more fun,
joy and purpose
and much less
of this day’s flail and flounder.

So, bye for now.

And whosoever you and I
will at our next meeting be,
I am really very happy
to think how I may be surprised,
when we chance to meet again.

see you then!

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It’s hot.
The freeway sounds
a constant brush.

Amid that not so distant rush,
I sit and think,
and feel and write
this peaceful night
of all the sundry, lucky things
I’ve got.

A reservoir
of strength
that I can spiral out
and hike or stride or stroll,
to suit my mood–

and, perchance,
progress in pinwheel
exploration rings.

I’ve got, all told,
perhaps too much.
Things new, things old,
intangible as well as palpable. . .

Though I may try,
I cannot help but
but against
so many things,
including those
obscured among the glut.

My eyes are opening
to see
where stand some things quite practical and tough,

along with others, radical
and joy-provoking.

It is a wonder, with all this,
I have, so far,
averted deadly choking.

My life has grown
so thick and long,
it might require
a fork with prongs
to cut it with a knife.

Sometimes, this makes me
pine or writhe,
but, skipping my sweet springtime skip,
I let go my needs
to shun feared shame,
stay hid and sly,
and slither in
my worn-out alibis. . .

more, or less,
I have to say,
as stars lay lace
upon this last hot day,
that, here and now,

my life is quite all right.

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My world
grows oh so big,

and I feel small,

though now the physical
equivalent of of a wild tree
grown full and strong and tall. . .

The forest grows
within itself
a brightly sunlit clearing.

It draws my heart,
my mind,
my every part. . .

Its incomparable aroma
fills my nose
on each in-breath. . .

Although my base seems rooted here,
the most important part of me
is aching so to go apace
smack in the middle of that space. . .

But my trusty head and deepest nerves,
which crave the mode
most assuring I survive
keeps interfering
in its fearing.

Will I,
much like a growing plant or tree
bend and rearrange myself
to spread my wings
and venture, uncloaked and high
into that light?

I am not sure,
but I daresay
the journey has begun. . .

I think I sense
I bend that way
a teeny little more each day,

and I’ll keep one ear fast to the ground
and another toward all else around,
wide open,
tuned to any sound
to find that strange and sometimes cryptic voice
that does all my best steering.

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A big day.
Or two or three.
So much to do.
And only thou
and me.

The freeway rush,
the drives,
the rides,
the buildings that long ago were raised
now, slowly, slowly, being razed,
the future patients
from those future quakes
thus to save.

I’ve done my best
a brand new learning curve to climb,
rewarding, but not quite yet sublime. . .

my weary body,
heart and head,
or something, someone
quite unseen,
not telling if it lives,
or if it’s dead,

whispers straight into my brain,
to tell me clear
it’s time
for bed.

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I’m so glad
your strong self
and presence and love
I once had.

But then,
I was grown. . .

Time to go out on my own,
a time of challenge enough,
as I would not
have thought,
all too soon,
you were gone–

a shoulder, a love, a presence
I could trust,
though you sometimes could get
erratic, disappointed, or mad.

It was still
such a wonderful thing
to be born,
and to live,
and to have you as Dad.

When you went,
a hole gaped.

Long I bawled,
long I wept.

My whole world
was an emptiness:
confused to the core,
so so sad.

I now thank my stars
for the time
that was yours and mine–
that was ours. . .

And for your kind lessons,
our heady discussions,
your silly dumb jokes,
that made groan some folks
and your favorite cliche
of the half empty-full glass,

And, at last,
for this very hour and day,
thanks so much to you,

I can be who I am,
and do what I do,
due in part to the gifts
and the love
and the cheer
brought by you,

as well as the clues
that were etched
by your life
as to
what to do
and what not
to do. . .

And, even as now,
I still sort that out
in my own pace,
and way,

by now, with each day
I grow ever more glad.

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Fireworks sound
warm fog air
veils the stars. . .

Modest the length
of the near-solstice night,
when measured in hours. . .

like Ben Franklin,
the June sun
is early to rise
at its dawn,
and then arcs
its sweet, long. bright sky time,

before, like a playful young child,
it gets coaxed slowly down,

and fades us to sound sleep
till, in the morn,
our brightening eyes’ lids
bravely slit open to peek,
as the new day’s young sun
its next journey around.

Posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Seasons, Summer | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments


Flying creatures
flit and flutter
‘mongst the bushes, flowers and trees,
along with clouds and wind,
the soaring aspect
of all nature. . .

Some buzz, some chirp,
some swoop,
some siphon nectar,
each along its special vector. . .

Some carry seeds
to foster distant grasses, plants. . .

some feed on certain kinds of ants,
some glide upon a wing. . .

All add
to such sums and hums of harmony,
as shore up
the one boldest one,
whose bright plumes
he shall swell up
to flaunt and preen,
thus richly dressed
to dance his dance sophisticate,
a number he’s the author of,

composed just so,
to be sure to attract his love,
along with song
that he
and only he
can sing.

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