SETTING SAIL IN A NEW WAY

Setting sail
is quite the sort of task
that,
of an entrenched,
lifelong land creature
is a bit much to ask. . .

To step toward
and attempt
to journey forward
on something else
than solid ground
may feel, at first,
unnatural
and of high risk, , ,

And yet,
there’s something
that still draws one there–
the sky, the sun,
the moon, the clouds,
the warm, the cool,
the movement of the air–
now slow, then brisk–

and distance
that spans and circles
wider, broader, deeper,
than any on land,
you’d chance to tread. . .

And, for the vast
and fearsome magnitude
of blue waters spread before you,
your early instinct
might well be
to breach it with
a giant ship,
sturdy, heavy,
steady, even keeled,
to feel protected,
fortified
and sequestered
from the sea, the weather,
and the nature,
high and wide. . .

Or,
you could choose to sit
and feel and think
a little longer,
and, instead pick
to switch things up a bit,
and sail with something
rather smaller,
which you can’t pack nearly
so full,
but with which you’ll really
feel it all–
the weather, wind, and waves,
and instinctively respond,
adjusting at each
micro-moment
to each element,
and also to the whole of it,

Whatever fear you boarded with,
or sadness, anger
lurking in some corner
deep in you,

has a chance,
as your sea legs
and feet
learn the sea
as they command,
grip,
and are servant to
your little schooner
or your ship,

it has a chance to
shift and morph
and maybe even
through your breath
or through your pores
to exit you,
release,
and dissipate
through kindest entropy
or to their more proper
owners go.

And that’s a possibility,
that while ashore,
or on some great big
fortress of a ship,
might well have never come to pass,
nor brought you
a fresh realm of possibility,
which opens up
when you surrender
to a less defended
but much freer
kind of flow.

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FLOWERS OF YESTERYEAR

Flowers of yesteryear.

Precious they are,

though long ago wilted,

dead and gone.

Like the brilliance of the circling

moon at night,

or the shimmer of a distant star,

they have not jilted

those of us who still remain,

nor have they really left us

wholly without them,

nor alone.

[~Dedicated to a woman

who loved flowers,

her whole life long].

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THURSDAY TIPPING OF MY HAT TO YOU

Brethren, Sistren,
A little Thursday tipping of my hat to you!
Thinking of you thriving,
Thistles strength and beauty
Threaded through the heart and soul
and inmost gut of you. . .

and wishing that
the “them and us”
is put to rest
at least one thin slice at a time,

with each
in and out move
of our precious breath.

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THERE’S MANY A SLICE OF LIFE

There’s many a slice of life
that’s cut somewhere
between the glory
and the grim. . .

But perhaps,
that’s not quite right. . .
and maybe there’s

only glory in the way
you hear and feel and tell the story

and only grim
according to a point of view
admitting insufficient light
to make things seem
any other way but dim,

and,
because life’s
under, over, in between,
and something other than the words,

there’s really no way,
even with a truly present,
steady, sturdy study of it–
each iota you have ever
seen or felt or heard,
though you be filled
with impressions and intentions,
and even tidbits wisdom
to the brim,

there’s no way
you can ever learn it
backwards, forwards,
inside out,
upwards, downwards,
by rote or by deeper understanding means,
completely,
and, to a T,
verbatim.

So,
to know what’s really going on
in all of life,

perhaps it’s possible
that
the very best that you can do
is,

with yourself,
be ever caring, curious, and present
so you can steer
your way through life
in a fashion timely, kind, and true,
as if to dress yourself inside
better than the best outer clothes
the most skillful seamstress ever
stitched or trimmed,


so that, at any moment,
(or at least much of the time),

it’s well within your wherewithal
to choose to honor,
in a trice,
without stopping in between to
doubt yourself–
Not even once!
(much less twice or thrice),
your deepest, longest-living longing
or your most fantastical, and beautiful, tall whim.

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HAD YOU THE GOOD FORTUNE, . . .

Had you the good fortune
to be born
with a set of limbs,
with hands and feet
and a 20 digits set complete,

And if,
after all this time,
you have them still,

there’s some wonder
to be had
from that,
would you but be still enough
for just a moment,

and think how often,
to make that possible,
the world
and you,
with effort true,
for yourself
went lovingly and skillfully to bat. . .

It’s cause,
perhaps,
for more than
just a little bit of awe,

if you but allow yourself
to soak it in. . .

though it be
so commonplace a thing,
you could very easily
have omitted to
notice it at all.

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A to Z POETIC DOODLE

Ailing.

Bed

Calling.

Dreaming

Evoking

Future

Goodness.

How?

In

Justifying

Kingdoms

Lurking

Midst

Never

Old

Peaceful

Queendoms

Running

Still

Threaded

Under

Visible

Workings

Xenia

Yonder

Zoological zest.

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IT’S MORNING TIME– CHIRP LIKE A BIRD!

It’s morning time.

Chirp like a bird!

You voice gets heard

Amid the din,

as part of one grand chorus here,

Singing out a thankful

and a joyful word.

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CULTIVATE RELATIONSHIPS

Cultivate

relationships

with all sorts

of friends

and allies,

some very different

from yourself,

in sundry ways,

and,

the degree

to which

even some of those

will help

is bound

to fill the life you have

abundantly

with wondrous good surprise.

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DO THE UNTHINKABLE

Do the unthinkable–

And dive right in,

though thou be rather far

from guaranteed unsinkable.

Switch course–

return to what was rendered fearsome

by the scores,

and treat it like

you spent no real time

off of the horse.

And though,

perhaps, no accolade is earned,

something ventured, something learned. . .

and there’s plenty there, also, to celebrate,

and relatively scant cause

for remorse.

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ANOTHER DAY, THE SAILORS SAY–ANOTHER WEEK, I WRITE AND SPEAK

The sailors used to say,

“Another day, another dollar.”

And, as for me,

what I can see,

each time Sunday comes and goes,

another week has come to close–

and starts another one to follow.

We cannot say

right from the start

all of what from that will come,

but can only hope

we’ll manage to look forward to

and later to recall with praise

these next seven tomorrows.

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