The feeling of the moment. . .
it’s there,
if you’re alive
of just what it is. . .

if you regard it now
or no,
it is there
that feeling,
hidden, who knows why or where,
in this moment. . .
and this. . .
and this. . .

maybe stacked or piled
with many other
umpteen moments
when things were much more
or much less amiss. . .

bundled into senseless series
notwithstanding reasons, rhymes
and countless, blunt and/or pointless idle queries
from this and many earlier times. . .

that limits you
in vigor, and rigorousness

though perhaps belittled
by the forced or wandered
of the all the world’s fear and pain
much worse,
of others near,
or in some unseen, distant plain–

While eventually,
that may be crucial,
your living in the moment
cannot be shamed into,
nor forced,
nor bought,
nor done for you by groups
in person or plugged virtual,

for, while much thus is learned and done,
there comes a point
it’s got to get more personal. . .

and it is yours,
and yours alone,
you the only expert,
from whisper tips of soft skin hair
down to the inner sanctum of the bone. . .

still, before you
can make salient comment,
dip, at least the briefest spell
into your insides
with your mind’s eyes,

and feel and note
whatever sunshine, light,
and cold and dark of night
touches all the corners there,
in belly, chest, and limbs and mind

in this one life,
for which you have no spare,
which you can seize, through letting go
of tension,
that baffles
and’s ever loath
grip to let go
so long as you refuse to love and tend to it,
as if it is a part of you you’d rather never know.

But when you turn your practiced ways
and choose to hug it with your mind,
the tangled mass of issues, tissues, cells and flesh and blood
begins to feel a little safer,

and, even if it’s almost imperceptible,
that tiny shift
relaxes it enough,
to confidence in you
and in the world
right now,

and over time,
if you should keep on
with the same,
the two of you
shall mingle gladly into one,

and a brightly glowing,happy spot
into the world is born,
and from that moment on,
the one that used to feel
like two at least,
stands likely a much greater chance
quite far and wide to grow.

Posted in Loved Ones, Love, Attention, Care, Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Self-care | Leave a comment


I walk beneath a sky of gray,
this waning,
and yet lengthening day.

I am a little chilly,
and, in a way, it feels silly. . .

A few minutes out,
I think about
whether I wish to continue
to work my lungs, my heart,
my muscles,
sundry tissues,
and my sinew. . .

I smile, I breathe,
I think about the warmth
within myself, within my home,
within the groups
that I am outside
and in.

Would it not have been more simple
to take my car, instead, for a spin?

But my body
my only lifelong buddy,
and I know
it needs to move this way
from a very early
in my life day,

when I manage to begin
one foot in front of the other to place.

And I hope I will do this still
when I finish the end of this time here
in whatever as yet unknown, and I hope, happy place.

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Take care of self,
seek and ask for help?
Put one
AND the other
to the test,

in this and that
different sort of circumstances. . .

one soul will sing
the other one will make things better
as she dances. . .

see trees above
and creek

growth and streaming. . .
skepticism and belief. . .

this fine January eve,
I think back
to what’s behind
and forward, far,
to what’s ahead. . .

I’ve been here quite a while
but one day will be the last
when I’ll lay down my head
or someone else will do it for me. . .

Maybe people will talk
and remember,
think on my life,
explore me. . .
regret they knew me,
shrug. . .

dare I say,
perhaps one
will think they did adore me. . .

I’m glad I don’t expect to be there,
but perhaps I’d be surprised.
Responses, perchance,
might even
floor me.

Posted in Life, Poetry, Self-care | 3 Comments


The evening starts;
the moon is split;
half is dark
and half
by our trusty sun is lit,

though, in this Northern Hemisphere,
a chill and winter season’s here.
I aim to drop
the old year’s fear,

and think a lot
about what I would like to see,
to do, imagine, dare, and dream. . .

A grid of squares,
calendar pages,
all the different plans I’ve laid. . .

not sure whether all they will fit,
but helps me it to see them spread
as if those future moments were already here.

I see
the bloom of possibility
at not doom,
but overload and difficulty
one route could bring. . .

And yet,
there are many other ways
to walk, to speak,
to be,
to strive, to rest,
to dance, to sing. . .

And I don’t really know
what this brand new year will bring,
or what I’m going to make, attract, or get. . .

But for now,
I think I will select
to enjoy
today’s present,
colorful sunset.

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for you. . .

for what you are
and what you know
and do. . .

much more
than for
the things
that you or anyone
spews forth
as something you’re supposed
to be or know or do. . .

because you count,
hold on to you
especially when the pressure mounts. . .

do not
allow yourself to sink
back into any lies
that insinuate
or try to dictate to you otherwise. . .

To start
(and end),
gaze in the glass
or close your eyes,
to glimpse the light within. . .

take note
of who you actually are,
right now,
from what you’ve done
and what
right now
you notice, know and do. . .

And aim to be the natural match
to the pattern that is, of essence, you
and, with the every beat
of your guarded, secret heart
as best you can, to that,
be true–

No need each flaw or failing
to risky, bored, or hostile eyes expose,
for they are rather apt
your most valued loving act to discount
motive-question, or fierce,
with blows oppose. . .

even if it takes a zillion, zillion tries,
move on from those,

and then,
take charge, take stock
of the basic facts and essence
that add up to the very special one
you are,

and, with care,
choose and invite
a few with whom to share,
who your gut says deserve your trust
to cheer you on,
and help you
truly see
and claim
and grow yourself
and with ever better friendly eyes.

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One little thing
lost. . .
really just misplaced,
and fretted oe’r,
but now, new found.

A black flapped book
of utmost use
to keep a trace
of what’s ahead,
and what lays behind.

A note,
a date,
a number, name,
a vital place
a comfort to have back in hand.

A wholer feel
even if it’s just an object
not a part of me
nor of foe, collaborator,
relative nor friend.

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The sun dips down below it

at twilight.

And bubbles up again
on the other side, at dawn.

But we know
that the sun

is neither destroyed, nor created,

by any of this magic motion.

Posted in Poems before the Anchor Dropped, Poetry, Quick reads | Leave a comment