Anchor me,
you slithery words,
from my tossing turbulence
and largely wily, little wise ,
habitual mentality. . .

a source, ’tis true,
that lacks
that cool air of neutrality. . .

And yet,
these thoughts
this heart,
at times, in concert,
others, at odds and distances apart,
entwine as one
to make the lens
through which
the world I see. . .

Which filters
to select which light
finds my mind’s eye,
to make me smile
or frown or sigh,

and picks the sum
all of my words
and self-told tales.

Head to feet,
in every single body cell,
the rub is
not to see defeat,
while the jury so often
is still out,
though I’m not always seeing this,

and to notice
win and loss
encompass not
the whole of mending
and tremendous
realm of time, space,
and possibility. . .

Perhaps there is much more out there,
on this, our vasty marbly sphere,
and yea, beyond the larger space
of all stars seen
from sky high peaks
when nights are clear,

and inside each of you, and all of us,
and even in this
little old me,
in the sum of all that we now are
and as well as what we yet can be,

that’s actually to much more avail
to anchor us
for our needed rests at sea,
and to fill with wind
our tall, strong, and graceful sails,

to take us sometimes where we want,
and other times to some place short of that
but exactly where we need to be.

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Give yourself a little gift
of thoughtful, loving service. . .

after your need,

or else,
some thing that
simply makes you pleased. . .

And it may befall
that you forget,
and later rediscover it,

which multiplies your sweet self-love
in ways
that might have been impossible,

if you’d aimed
to foster future pleasure
from the first,
on purpose.

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Three blind mice. . .
tic tac toe. . .

Things come in threes
roll off the tongue
with clever rhythm,
grace and ease,

though’s said
that three counts
up to crowd,
in issues touching
belles and beaux.

Ergo, seems I must think twice,
for choosing meetings,
if I hope to make them nice–
What number drawn
is best betimes
twixt words, twixts folks,
twixt hearts or flowers,
or proper repetitions
to best learn
and know’t by rote?. . .

Or pendulums
for some wind-swung,
ringing, wood or metal chimes,
making natural music at its best,
to far surpass our pens’ and tongues’
most brilliant
words or rhymes.

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One breath
is like the picture worth
a thousand words. . .

Of which, perhaps, you’ve heard. . .

The latter
snapped or brushed
or else some such,
can show so very many things
in texture, shape, relationship, and living color
best. . .

But the other,
so apt drawn and then let go
through mouth, through gills,
through any willing pair of nostrils,

by nature, fills and heals
so very much that’s plain to see,
and even more
that’s hid well under cover,

and etches, too,
the finest line of difference,
across which
the seeming minute distance
designs the very crucial step
from death to life
or life to death.

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in gross,
in fine,
in all the things you want the most
in the biggest heavy load
heaped upon your form so high
you nearly sure
you’ll lose your mind.

There, In space
hid twixt all the kinds
of excess stuff,
from times when you’ve had
much too much,
to those with truly not enough,

in all those other folks and creatures,
the mountain, valley, river sea,
and all sorts of other wonders,
of vegetation, music, incantation,
and surprising, singular, and strange
earth features,

in the stillest afternoon,
the gray, the black, the stars, the moon,
the thunders,

The joys you felt to be like heaven
and the pains you felt quite sure were hell,
your forebears, brothers, sisters, children,
friends, lovers,
all those other folks
and you. . .

do reach out
but reach in, too,
if you really, truly want
to feel the Presence
that makes us whole
and fully human,
and drives all that we can
and what we can’t,
and shields those chinks
we have in us
that tend at times
to let the dark and gloom in.

It may be bigger, stronger, better,
but it’s both the spirit and the letter,
writ intrinsically in you,
in every cell of every color,
be your eyes black, brown, green, grey, or blue,
God’s in the soil on which you trod,
and in every single cell of you.

In moments quiet,
if you care,
you’ll drop behind your face
and you’ll see–
you’ll find Her there,

if you but breathe
and open up your nose and tongue
and ear and skin,
and your shockingly inclusive view.

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Reach. . .

the drowsy status quo
and capping dome of possibility
to breach. . .

Out there,
+++++once you’ve gone and done
+++++ all that it takes
+++++that once-confining sphere
+++++right off to slough,
is life poured freely
+++++into every cup,
is might,
is light,
is bigness
+++++way beyond your wildest dreams,
+++++much more so past
+++++your two eyes’ common sight. . .

though it feels
and your outer senses question
if it’s really even real,

Way down inside yourself,
you know,
thought it’s brand new,

it’s absolutely, positively,
exactly where you need to be,

and deeply and uniquely
for you and for the world
just right.

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You wring your hands
as you take to understand
that your best efforts aren’t enough.

Temptations calls–
“Why not give up?”

Breathe deep
don’t hold,
nor let explode
the dearest, most essential you
with noisy puff. . .

Seek down
the mettle
in your bones
and muscle bands,
and see what wisdom
there well hid
speaks clear to you
and drink of that. . .

you’ll taste and know it
as it slakes your deepest thirst
and ’twill not be
a bitter cup.

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