The Dao of Water

Sitting on the porch while the storm rolls in.

Exhausted from work overnight

and a very taxing week.

I watch the rain and imagine

She is washing the week away.

The thunder rolls are the Universe

telling the stress and wear to be gone.

The Wind is pushing the weight of the week

out of my Sacred Space

as if the strain were

a guest that has overstayed its welcome.

Be gone and leave me.

Almost before my eyes,

the grass gets greener,

the blossoms shine brighter,

and the birds sing louder.

The houses and cars and trash bins look newer.

The air smells sweeter.

What a gift is this –

That the undesired forecast bring such baptism.

The flow of water without,

a template for the flow within.

The Universe

in all Her Glory

encourages me to follow.

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Saturday Springtime

The feeling of accomplishment

Dirt under my broken fingernails

The cacophony of wind chimes

Out of tune but still beautiful

Like a 4 year old singing

Amazing Grace

Bamboo and Mimosa saplings bent in the breeze

Bottle bush reflecting the sun in cobalt and olive

As it sinks

My morning’s work newly watered and

Smelling of manure

The leaves green and green and green again

With purple intertwined

Buds of red and pink geranium

The scent only in my mind til they bloom in full

Seedlings of tomato and pepper

Herbs

Both delicate and rustic

In colorful pots strewn about

And in the center

At the bistro table

Mug of tea growing cold

I sit in the splendor of

My makeshift garden and watch the

Garden spinners approach takeoff

There will be no award for this

Upcycled driveway

Unless you count fresh salads and

Pesto

That will come in time

And the mornings spent sipping steaming hot

Mugs amidst the color

And comfort

Of an ersatz Eden

Made with my own two hands

As the birds serenade me with

Their sweet melodious songs

Paradise

 

 

For Santi

I know, little boy.

I know how you feel.

It’s hard to share the spotlight.

And i tell you now, he will hog it.

He is new

And small

And smells like powder.

And there will be days when you feel like your achievements are overlooked

Because he is all those things.

But i promise you,

They still love you.

They still think you are wonderful.

He is no threat to your awesomeness.

You don’t need the spotlight for you to shine.

And when he is always younger than you

And gets scared

Or worried

Or sad

You can be his nightlight~

Casting a bit of brightness into the dark.

Til then, know that you are seen.

You are loved by your parents.

You are special.

And every first born who knows how you feel

Is there for you.

We’ve got your back.

Welcome to the firstborn club.

 

Less Talk, More Action

What is wrong with you?

You don’t listen to the whole opinion before you declare it wrong:

A stomp on your rights.

A disgrace to our forefathers.

Closed to compromise and blind

To your own rhinoceros hide.

If you are so committed to your view,

What are you doing to help it come true?

 

What is wrong with them?

They are supposed to be representing us to the ersatz leader

In the Big White Building.

Huge conference rooms set aside for compromise and action

Plates of donuts and stale coffee

Aides and press and soundbites

But no change.

If they are really there to serve the public,

Why don’t they translate our anger into action?

 

What is wrong with us?

We are outraged on social media

Screaming at our inflexible friends who won’t hear compromise.

We post news articles and memes and

Send up thoughts and prayers for victims and families.

Crying as we hunch over our laptops.

Wishing things were different.

If we are so horrified at the atrocity

At the deaths,

Why aren’t we more involved in life?

 

What is wrong with me?

All these years of wanting to see change.

But work and weedlings and life took so much time

That i felt i had none to offer.

Now in my silver years, that is no longer an excuse.

I am intent on making change

In myself, to start

And have put in some effort to get involved.

I can’t do everything

But i can do something.

If i knew it was this important to give even a little,

Why has it taken me so long?

 

 

Do These Words Make My Ass Look Small?

I won’t be bullied into going that road.

It’s a slippery slope that i’ve slid down before:

You get what you want and i

Get broken.

Each pitch off the edge taking a bite from

My ego, My pride. My self.

Your look that says,

“Your ass is mine.”

With a sexual bent devoid of feeling,

As if those vile words are a gift

That i don’t deserve.

I know you think i like it.

You think my silence is some kind of benign acquiescence.

A deliberate surrender.

An affirmative capitulation to your exemplary manhood.

But it is anesthesia, pure and simple.

The somnolence of cultural propaganda

The  paralyzing fear of loneliness and discord.

And your failure to see that tells me you are

To be trusted with neither my flesh

Nor my soul.

Your blind insistence that my ass is yours

Belies the truth that you are my ass:

The stubborn and id-driven

Schmuck

Who cares only for his own wants.

I’ve no need for a pack animal who refuses to carry

Any burden.

Any responsibility.

Any truth.

I am choosing not to be broken.

I am choosing not to be silent any longer.

I will be strong.

And true to me.

And your narcissistic self can

Kiss my ass in your mirror –

Which is the only place you’ll ever see it again.

 

A Spirit By Any Other Name

Elohim, Adonai

Jehovah and Allah

Akal Purakh, Father, Peace

Krishna and Zeus

God, Goddess, Universe, Science

The Force, The Love and The Light…

See It in others.

Find It in ourselves.

This is the day your Lord has made.

Named or nameless.

Formed or Formless.

All together or all One.

Let us rejoice and be glad.

The Doctor Will See You Now.

“What do you want?” She asks.

“What do you want?”

I want to avoid the question.

My answers contradict logic and progress

and each other.

They make no sense,

even to me,

and it would be all i could do to get them out of my mouth

without expelling all the conflicting emotions

along with my antithetic words.

In my mind, i beg to recuse myself,

but She will not allow it.

 

“What do you want?” She asks.

“What do you want?”

I want what i shouldn’t admit.

I want to be left alone,

to sleep and rest and fade into

oblivion.

Nothingness engulfing me like

the plushest blanket.

Sadness, worry, and fear,

leaving me with the last of my breath as

the universe swallows me

whole.

Not as death, but

rebirth.

 

“What do you want?” She asks.

“What do you want?”

I want what i cannot have.

The chance to go back in time

and fix mistakes.

Mend fences before they

fall to the ground.

Keep bridges from burning under the flames

of angry words.

Keep scars from forming

under the red-hot branding irons

of society’s moral cowboys and

my own putrid thoughts.

To stop it all before it begins.

 

“What do you want?” She asks.

“What do you want?”

I want what i am ashamed to admit,

embarrassed to say aloud.

The weakness of wanting,

needing,

to be loved.

No caveats, no limits.

No reminders of human

failures

or failings

or future expectations.

Pure and undiluted.

In spite it all.

In spite of me.

The type of agape, of caritas, of grace,

that has the loftiness of fairy wings,

and is about as likely to be

real.

 

“What do you want?” She asks.

“What do you want?”

I want everything and nothing.

I want to give up.

I want to give in.

I want to give ’em hell.

I want it all or

i want to throw it all in the air and

watch it fall to the ground.

Shattering into a thousand sparkling pieces,

each more beautiful than it was when

it was whole.

The stuff of children’s legends and

Hallmark cards.

Pure fantasy.

 

“What do you want?” She asks.

“What do you want?”

 

What do i want?

 

“I want, ” I reply.

“And it is more than i can bear.”