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,

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,
and, to a T,

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

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

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.

This entry was posted in Life, Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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