Quick quick quick,
get it done,
have no fun,
let the tension
get real thick. . .

Oh God! Oh No!

That’s the way
will make me sick.

Quick quick, yes,
but add some slow–

quick quick slow
quick quick slow–

now, that’s a better
and more level
way to go. . .

and it’s the way
that I will live
to see the day
that my best stuff
and my best me
will get to show.

It really is so obvious,
but there’s times
when I regress
and get
wholly oblivious
to the most important
things I know.

And when I do,
if I take time
to spend
with all of you,
it warms me up,
and sets my heart aglow,
so that I better,
and for longer time,
along my truest path
may go.

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Enjoy it. . .

Your glee. . .
your grief. . .
your anger,

Enjoy even
your blind, misplaced faith,

your fear, your laughter, and your tears,
some which fly by,
while others linger,
beget more,
and then,
proceed to fester
onto the tongue
of the once-happy taster
they firmly latch,
and powerfully cloy it. . .

And, don’t forget, enjoy
+++++ your power
++++++++++ to let food
++++++++++ and life, and love
++++++++++ be quite enough
++++++++++ your spirit to sate,
++++++++++ your gut get full,

and later,
do enjoy
+++++ the pleasure
++++++++++ of your very freshest hunger,
++++++++++ when you took
++++++++++ just what you need–
++++++++++ no jot past that
++++++++++ to make too much;

+++++ and your trust
++++++++++ that you do receive aplenty,
++++++++++ when you stop at just enough.

Yes, enjoy it.
Even the times
when your stubborn disbelief
in the brightly sparkling Truth
leads you stray off
as many more will also do,
to pick life up–
and wring it, wrench it–
in vicious fists
with squishing palms
you clench it,
handle it too rough,
as if
you took a noble metal
and with base mineral unbuffed
by force,
tried to alloy it,

with aims
Life’s plans wise
so to defeat,
and, through your low plots
strip it bare
of all its rights
and sovereign seat,
in such a frenzied, cruel heat
the threats you make
fall just short
of the point
where you have gone
and just destroyed it.

that is all too oft
our bent,
but if we relax
and find a way
we can retract,
and deign take back
+++++ not just the stuff
+++++ we said and did,

+++++ but also
++++++++++ ills that we,
++++++++++ when quiet,
++++++++++ thought and meant,
in heartfelt apology,
+++++ offered to
+++++ all of great Life
+++++ which freely spawned
+++++ us and our world’s biology,
sure to say sorry
+++++ that we dared so
+++++ doggedly
+++++ to damage, bore,
+++++ insult,
+++++ annoy it

and then,
next up,
we start again,
take up a life
where we let Love
grow up for us
a new-old methodology
flawed though, it’s true, we be,
we have begun
in cahoots with grandest Love,
once more
now to employ it.

Once we’ve made sure
to do all that,
we’ve earned a moment
and a breath
to chill, relax,
give thanks Life is still intact;

let it seep
deep in our soul
where we can
enjoy it.

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Take heart. . .

Fake it till you make it

Find any point
where you can infiltrate it. . .

Then, choose there
to make your start.

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Pitter patter
on curved edge
of the umbrella,
and on the top
where it lays flatter,
come sprinkle-drizzle
gentle drops,

My ready ear
bends out to hear,
what I then
send on to you
through pixil dots–

a little of
that quenching rain,
an infiltrating, quiet greeting
to bless your day
until we next
find ourselves meeting.

in the time
that’s in between,
we each can watch
the season’s switch
by our year’s clock,
in our sundry
global spots,

no matter whether
dry or wet
or sun or fog,

buds, stubs or blooms,
worms hiding moist
deep in earth homes,

or winter, spring , summer or fall,

fields silent–

or awash with sound,
a multitude birds tweeting.

Posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Seasons, Spring | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


One, two, three,
Rain, shine,
and rain again,
where will we be,
after this weather,
if ever,
our count shall reach
all through to ten?

What’s good for you
may not be good for me,
but fortunately,
that day’s sky and land
shall see,

we’ll still be apt
to tweak our act
to suit
the changes in reality,
as all tides roll
now high, now low,
back and forth,
and back again.

I will be hoping
that each of us
will be ready
by those days
to admit
golden gifts and plagues
our heavens and our Earth
and our
hidden inner universe
shall send.

Posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Seasons, Spring | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


No time for tears. . .

Comes in the news
my latest late
and latter elder
from this world
has disappeared.

I say, “No time,”
but were it really
such a crime,
if I would do
a little crying?

And also,
to recall
the ways in which
his blood love
made feel extra tall
my soul?. . .

And would I really
be so weak,
if I let roll
right down my cheek
some big fat drops
of salty water clear?

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Spring is the air. . .

In my heart. . .

In my step,

When I allow
the little buds
within me
just to be there.

Give them sun,
give them love,
and proper feed,
and give
exactly and completely
the simple sum
of things they need. . .

Then, patient,
must I wait,
not even trying to engage
each little bit of wit
and useful stuff I know. . .

but just to pray
and make it clear I care,

for that will be the crucial part
that activates whatever art
they choose to use,

be it to blossom, wither,
or whatever,

or sisterly, together,

in order that
not just their little corner pack,
but the whole darn tree
and its future waves of progeny
spring boldly forth,
in concert,
in such a way
they prosper
and and they grow.

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