You feel pinned in.
It is not clear
which card to play
or pot to place your ante in. . .

You up it, though,
and hedge your bets.

You fight a war
against yourself.
And think you’re bound to win.

So what if you
should also lose?
Does not that make things

Or, at least,
somewhat even?

Well, clever though that theory goes,
games actually play
in their own way,
not quite the way that you’d suppose,

Yea, though you may
both win AND lose,
the trouble is,
the part to lose
maintains its grip
and influence
on winner’s head and heart,
gut, neck and toes,
twined up and bound
in just one skin.

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The waning light.
In my fright,
a little prayer. . .

A little blip
in field of sight. . .

There is benevolence out there. . .

And there are allies,
and good friends. . .

And there are means
to all best ends. . .

the light
a bit more fades,
time now
to gather, lift, and twist
a few loose strands
and hold my work
toward setting sun
whereby I craft a tool
for my good use,
precise and strong,
and with the beauty
and the smile
of a little girl’s first braids.

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If you want to know
what another person is about,
and watch.

Observe, observe, observe.
Respect, respect, respect.
And love. Love always first.

And in your quest to know,
of this or that
acquaintance, stranger, kith or kin,
or friend or foe,
rather than impose suggestion,
with open mind
and open words, of a kind kind,
fates do permit
that, now and then,
with unexpecting, wondering mood,
you ask a question.

Leave silence till
and while
they answer,
and then,
some still.

And let it sit
and hit or land
or touch or move you
as it will,
but move, not even in your best smooth groove–
not yet.

Think and feel
more what it means for them
and what they think and feel is real,
than what it means
for and of you,
before you
flinch or jerk your knee
or rant on Twitter,
for much of what you do that way,
is not for you nor anyone your best you’s deal.

If you want to know
who stands before you,
you also need to study well the knower.

The more you do,
perhaps the less we’ll ever need
to give what-for
to any human other.

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Love every inch
of your human
and God-given

In each way,
and in each day
it does change and grow.

From each silken, silvering hair,
even down to that one
oddly puffed and side-bent toe,

Though you may feel
its perfection in some aspects
may be spotty,

and just how good
it or its service may yet get
is something at this very time
you really just have got no way
to fully and completely know.

But, so far it’s kept you,
if not
on an even,
at least
on some sort or other
of a keel,
as it’s very apt to do,
for quite some time to go.

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Put on
your jaunty confidence. . .

Because it is,
donned in name of all that’s possible,
your indisputable best dress. . .

this holds true
both north and south,
and east and west,
in Orient and Occident. . .

You will be blessed.

with that quite well picked attire,
you’ll be on fire–

and pass
with flying, bright-hued flags,
along the way of your desire,
that crucial, challenging next test.

Posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry, Quick reads | Leave a comment


The woman–
she had seven sons.

SEVEN sons.

Last killed.
First tortured.
7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2,
though there was wicked testing
of her strength and will,
she lost them all,
down to the youngest one.

All knew
they paid
for their own sins,
but not against
their killing torturing king.

For the way of God
right then they stood,
encouraged and supported,
by their proud
and grieving mum.
(though in one’s desperate
and frightened mind
were her words somewhat contorted)

What if I were
not just the one who sinned
and stood for right,
through death and torture,
but also their fruitful, strong,
unshaking mother,
and even, too
the vile, offending king
who struck and struck
and struck them down,
a worldly and cruel overlorder,

Of me, what then?
Of this, it may be best
I do not fret,
for each minute more, and day,
a fresh opening and chance I get,
myself along my path
aright to set,

Though, perhaps, to boot,
I’ll have the proper opportunities
and various employs
and qualities of me
to vet.

And, since I get to lay the table,
it may as well be simply me
upon whom
I place
with confidence
my every bet.

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Thanksgiving countdown.
Not like Christmas.
No official advent,
nor connecting isthmus
between our ordinary time
and the holiday with gatherings
to celebrate whatever blessings
on us shine.

But, would there, could there
be a way
that we could find
to make us ready
for that day,
beyond the decorations,
shopping, cooking,
and preparatory trepidations
about the ones we know we’ll see? . . .

Could we craft
a job or plea
to grow fresh hope
to open up
a brand new road
in our own
and family history?

Posted in Holidays, Medium Length Poems, Poetry | Leave a comment