Sometimes

Sometimes I reach the breaking point
but I am never broken.

Sometimes I feel like I can’t stop
but I am always stopping.

Sometimes I feel so screamingly ugly
but there inside is beauty

Sometimes I feel like I could die
but somehow I keep living.

Dead Leaves

The trees shed their leaves
as part of nature’s plan.
The dead leaves enrich the soil
and snuff out the choking weeds,
paving the way for new growth in the spring.

But urban humans
have a different plan.
The dead leaves need to be
raked up and hauled away.
We can’t be reminded of death and decay.

When did we decide that groomed lawns
were better than wild flowers?
When did we start to assume that we could
change our fate by hiding the evidence.
When did we forget what dead leaves are for?

We need to cover ourselves in dead leaves,
letting that blanket connect us
to all we have lost.
We need to die and decay
and pave the way for our own new growth in the spring.

For the First Time

I see the same scene
outside my window
every day the same

The fence, the morning glories
the birds in the feeder
the brick house next door

My jaded eyes
see only sameness
nothing different, nothing new

Yet, even as I watch
even if I try not to see
everything changes

Those aren’t the same flowers
not the same migrating birds
not the same slowly weathering fence

Even the dust in the window is different
laying in changing patterns
drawn by the wind and the rain

And, despite my resistance
I have to admit that nothing
is ever the same at all – not even me

So, these stale feelings
this aged angst
is only an illusion

Each moment is different
allowing new insights
proposing new possibilities

So now, when I look out my window
will I be able to see that new world, every time,
for the first time?

I hope so.

One Brown Sock

Where do they go?
Nobody knows.
I think the dryer
feeds on clothes
and my brown socks.

I put two in
the other day
and somehow one
was whisked away
without a trace.

Did UFOs
slyly descend
to cart it off
before the end
of the fluff cycle?

Or maybe there’s
a deep black hole
where wet brown socks
and monsters go
when we’re not looking.

Alas, a mystery
it’s true
So now I’m wearing
one dark blue
and one brown sock.

The Final Walk of Life

There is a road
that none of us has been on before
and yet one that all of us must travel.

We take a step with pain.
We shuffle along with grief.
We get tangled in the brambles of loss.

No one really wants to
make the journey,
but no one can avoid it.

There is darkness ahead, the unknown looms,
but even if we stand still
the gravel shifts beneath our feet.

We are aware of others on the path,
shadows of joy, or hope,
or friends along the way,

but in the end we make the footsteps ourselves.
No one can make them for us
and no one can tell us where ours will land.

We are ultimately alone on this road
with whatever philosophy gives us comfort.
And yet, we are all alone together

struggling to find our way on this final walk of life.

A Life Well Lived

Lingering or sudden
too early or long overdue
when the Mystery calls
all of us must answer.

We can weep and wail
protesting our fate
burying the joy along with the body
and feeling sorry for ourselves.

Or we can celebrate
letting the innumerable memories
tie us together forever
into Eternity.

And we can hold our
lost ones in our love
looking forward and saying
This is a life well lived!

Mourningsong

There is sadness in my head,
both old and new, and a longing
for the way things used to be.

There is sorrow in my eyes,
blurring all the special times
that used to bring me tranquility and joy.

There is fear in my heart,
making me cower behind
all the unfixable mistakes of the past.

But, there is also mystery in my soul,
that tries its best
to keep a spark of hope alive.

And, there is life in me yet,
that struggles to be set free
and change my mourning into song.

Morningsong

What makes you so happy, little winged ones?
What fills your hearts with songs?

Is it the morning sun?
Is it the offered seeds?

Are you singing to your mates,
or your chicks, or your God?

I wish I could understand you,
so I too could sing a joyful morningsong.

Hm?

Some people are arrogant
thinking they know everything.

Am I arrogant
thinking I know nothing?

Grief

I need dry kindling
to light my heart’s joy again
not this tear-soaked stick