To err.
To forgive.

To hang in there–
even when it isn’t fair,

and still,
somehow, somewhere,
to find a way
quite true
to live
and to let live.

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Dear Readers,

Get thee to my poetry! :~)

I think you may enjoy this poem, which I’d forgotten, till coming across today.

Its spirit and language speak with a strong and direct clarity that delighted me, drew me in, and inspired me to do this fresh re-write.

Thank you very much for your interest in my work. I really appreciate it.

Elaine Danforth

Posted in Links to Archived Posts, Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Revision announcements, Uncategorized | Leave a comment



Soft wind slaps
a langour
on blue, slow-mo ripples
in the island harbor.

As this May sun day
stretches longer,

I bike,
therefore I am,

in my long-held
pedal-cycling stand,
I tweak my leg,
while I dare
let go
a moment
with my playful
arms and hands,

and my day
is made by
this heart-pumped hour–
but delicious, easy
play and labor,

when my
and wound soul-brain
at last unwind
to let me know
they are not twain.

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Listen to the sound of your own voice.

Inside your heart,
your gut,
your throat,
your head. . .

Even if
no one else
outside of you
can hear
that anything is being said,

Don’t lose the track
of that most vital stream,
an airy column-thread. . .

Feed it–
let your belly billow,
with a smooth, straight flow
of delving-low,
deep-reaching breath. . .

Relax your jaw
your face,
your neck

and let that grounded,
fully rounded strength
propel your song,
your talk,
your expressed choice

quite well,
to that part of you
that guides you intellectually,

and let it know
it is just fine
to go
and grow,
in your own time,
and unique way,

that feels AND calms
your sorrows,
and also
nourishes and notices
your greatest joys. . .

And keep your reach
and mood
and mind
and eyes

ever more
outward, upward,

moving, curving
’round the Earth,

yet also fixed
toward ever-changing
sunny, starry,
inky, moonlit

as you stand,
and, enchanted,
make no noise.

Until come slightly
different days,
when you need
much less to think,
for now you know,
by all you do,
you’ve taken in
and given out
in easy, natural, graceful flow
the things that you
and only you
could get and give,

And in so doing,
you’ve shown a couple others
as you’ve learned,
how they, too,
may thrive and live,

till you and they
can rest quite easy
in each breath,

knowing that you’ve done
and have become
your really, truly, very best.

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Will I find me
the opportunity
in the operating system?

Will I blindly
beg for immunity,
so I can diss
all pursuit of my serenity
and bypass it,
with my own
liberal permission?

Will I be inclined
to ignore
the full picture
of humanity,

and recoil into
a boilerplate
a computer can

and somehow toil
to look for people
in the digital
itty bitty nitty gritty
ones and zeroes,
and the calculations
they propose,
by complicated derivations?

And fall into
a slew
of irritating iterations
of flat-hinged flaps
that dropped the world
into our laps,

or, even, as I’ve heard,
into phones
we palm or pocket
so we can speak to air
and “Like” the Friends
we find in there,

as we
with buggy, weary eyes
and one wee bud
in our ear socket?

Or fiddle on little bugs so small,
that, on a watch strap,
we can wrist ’em,
and thereby have
the world’s wisdom
in our thrall,

all while
days, weeks, months do pass,
since we have last
seen and touched
or been touched by
any truly present
person, animal, or plant–

at least any
that we clearly
can recall?

So if
you ever come to think
that your ears ring
with some sound
from our life’s new past,
not distant–

an arf or purr or chirp
or friendly human voice,
from some familiar
or exotic place?

It is your choice,
but maybe
you might let this thought
ride your brain waves
and through your coiled mind
to cross–

That sound is calling you,. . .

though you feel a counter-pull,

you know
deep down,
really, really, really
want to
get a grip–

And reconnect
with Planet Earth,
the air, the water,
creatures, trees,
and plants and dirt,

if you’re really daring,
show your face,

where you can touch,
be touched,
and heal,

and thus,
again get truly whole,

as you meet up,
and then rejoin,
with all the hands
and hearts,
bodies and souls
of the entire
human race–

it’s even possible,
that you might
achieve this all
without ever
even purchasing
a digital assistant.

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Don’t push it–
Don’t rush it–

If you wish
your shining dream
to manifest
on earthly plain,

think of the Mum
who takes her babe
in her arms twain
and sings quite soft,
for that’s the way
to send gray clouds aloft,
and bring a smile to the babe,
to make its day. . .

she absolutely knows
it wouldn’t be the way
to simply up
and ambush it,
rather than to gather it
with patient love,
as naturally a mother can,
so that she holds
and gently rocks it
in the warmth
of her arm folds,
and strokes
with sweetly smoothing hand
its back and face and belly
that act to soothe
and gently wipe away
the cares of baby,
with the very special way
she knows to touch it.

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Free yourself–

peel gently off
the climbing, winding
vines that bind. . .

And breathe into
the icky-sticky tracks
where wickedly invading tendrils
used to grip and cling,

to suck the life
it strangled tight,
right through your
resisting skin,

and to precipitate
your core right through,
thence to create
a lace quite intricate
through your every
living tissue,
hard or delicate,
in the fabric
of your flesh and blood,
a foreign
architecture structure,
which cannot
be located–
nor excised, nor extricated,

and which,
so far,
has perpeturated
more than
a sundry month of Sundays’ ills,
and kept you feeling
thickly stuck
and battling chills,
as on an endless trudge
through rainy mud. . .

From there,
you might just try
to say to you,
as I will try
to say to me,

“Breathe and free,
breathe and free. . .”

Let plenty air
to enter in,
and then
surrender it
to let its exit
come easily to pass,
to be. . .

And, from the deep
glub-dub, glub-dub,
the steady beating of your heart,
which pumps not only
deep red,
liquid blood,
but also
the invisible,
electric flow
of indomitable love.

It is a very
loving heart
that labors, hand in hand,
with a gifted, skillful mind.

Deftly together,
then they spin
a very different
kind of vine
than the one
that held you
such a long, long,
weary time–
so stiff, immobile,
and, to your trouble,
nearly numb and blind. . .

It will grow up
an airy vine,
so soft and gentle,
yielding light
with not much weight,
but filled with fruit
to feed the soul,
to let develop
and proliferate
your nascent freedom–

not just in you–
but, too,
widely ’round to propagate
in smooth continuum,
thus freeing
each and every being
you can find.

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