Poem for Your Day
Like Pan
Like Pan
I float to Never Land:
Pixie dust in hand
Without demands
From the “Man,”
My van
Floats higher than
Any car can.
The road falls away and . . .
In God’s Time – Part 6
She spread the wrapped gifts around the base of the four-foot artificial tree, its tinsel needles shining on fake limbs beneath the low, lamp light emanating from two lamps flanking their fading couch.
She turned out the lamps, sat down on the couch, and began working under the light of a pine-scented candle burning on the Brazilian coffee table she’d picked up at a Sao Paolo bazaar. In Maria’s mind, the pine candle somehow compensated for the scentless, artificial tree and relaxed her while she worked.
She surveyed the three stockings—Conchita’s, Eric’s, and hers. Seeing Eric’s empty stocking, she felt his absence.
He won’t be home this Christmas. The thought surprised her even though he’d been gone a month. The plan was always for him to be home by Christmas.
Conchita will miss him, Maria thought.
A part of Maria mourned the loss of him; a part wanted him to pack up his stuff and leave. He’d grown so belligerent lately. Sometimes, his mood disorder would dominate his personality; so much so, he’d curse her and take money out of her purse to buy God knows what.
During Thanksgiving, he finished a bottle of Sherry and called her a harlot in front of Conchita, just because Maria mentioned she really liked “Long, Hot Summer” with Paul Newman.
He’d make hurtful comments like that, but then could be so sweet. After he’d insulted her, Eric complimented her on the food and insisted on doing all the dishes.
But the infidelity was what broke her. When he became manic he’d go on the prowl, ending his bartending shifts with barflies he’d gathered. The memory of walking in on him pressed on Maria’s mind. She fell back into the couch, sobbing silently, her sides aching with emotion.
Awash in Thoughts
Giving up is hard to do;
With so much at stake,
It’s easy to wander from you.
We want our cake;
Can’t we eat it, too?
Our minds are awash in thoughts
Of how life’s supposed to be.
Don’t let the tide
Wash you out to sea–
The undercurrent drowns many.
Giving in’s so hard, I think,
But thoughts are little more
Than darkened intent turned to ink;
You don’t have to struggle anymore;
Resistance just leaves you sore.
Listen to the master of men;
Submit to Him;
It’s only hard giving in
When you think you can win.
Head in the Clouds
Walking along, I look to the skies
Wanting to derive
All that’s alive.
Airy clouds blow past
The blue canvas
Of the sky’s expanse.
I trip on a stick,
And disconnect
Thinking it’s a snake.
Dreams of everything unreal
Can often conceal
Stumbling blocks bruising our heels.
In a Hurry
Got to get everything done,
Everything, before the rising sun.
My pulse quickens,
As the coffee beckons.
I remind myself: the sitter is coming over,
As I put away the baby’s leftovers.
Now the baby ambles into the room,
I look at the clock. It’s already noon.
My older daughter comes into the room to complain
About having to clean up: it’s more of the same.
The baby brings me building blocks
In her unmatched socks
That she put on by herself.
Ellie complains that the baby is making a mess.
I become the General Council of the UN
Between two warring parties in
My own home. I must respond,
But instead am in despond
That I am late again.
I take a breath and look around.
I have the moment. Remain there
I tell myself, remain aware.
The journal entry is a moment I can treasure
Can use to measure
The life in life,
No matter the strife
Or chaos that comes my way
Or disrupts my day.
The changing of a diaper,
Which my baby calls “wipers,”
Makes me laugh as I recall in the presence of others
That I wouldn’t trade them for another
Or even this life, which if I remain
In the moment, can give me joy.
I Called You
In this prison I’ve made,
I reserve a space
No evil can overtake.
But, in vain, it plots
And connives to overtake,
And with a roving eye,
It spotlights the innocent i,
Looking for weakness from above,
As if from a tower.
Still, no eye, nor I, from hate or death can overpower.
So in frustration, it abuses, misuses, and has its way,
But someday, someday.
i will be stronger still.
You tell me He and Him have greater might?
Well, bring them on if they want a fight.
Rage on. Rage on.
i will be stronger still.
Not even He will beat this flesh
Or send me to death.
But before we war,
He asks, “why are you sore?”
I answer not
But plot and plot.
Still, He seeks me out
To wage a peace.
“My weapon is love,” he says.
“You are my friend.”
I back away but do not cave.
It’s war I want, and a war I’ll wage.
Raging on, I wait for the damage reports.
Just as I’ve feared, the fronts
Have crossed, and I’m fighting myself.
He says, “Love will not fight, but only hold,
Till wrath is gone and neither hot or cold
But warm for sharing souls.”
Can it be now, that I give up
Arms and submit to Him?
What would the words of a treaty bear, therein?
In a small moment and hand,
I concede
“i sin.” –
“There you have it, I said it,
I make mistakes.
Don’t we all?
And damn it all,
What of it?”
He says nothing,
And my prison just echoes my words.
The hollow refrain leaves me cold inside
Like the sound of a cell door closing
Come solitary confinement.
OK. I pick up the pen again
Seeing He holds the key,
To the lock I’ve booby trapped to human hands
Including my own.
“I can’t do this anymore.
Free me from this prison.
I don’t want to serve
In hell anymore.”
I drop the pen in mid-thought
Pondering what he expects
“Sure, I can quit,
But submit
To a Lamb?”
Then, I realize, the God-Man raged too,
But, for what?
Not for self, but me and you.
I pause, puzzled, at a thought
So alien to me.
I listen to my noble enemy
Tell how His son waged a war,
And died for peace
With You and men like me—
That we might have a new lease
On life and live eternally.
I labor in thought,
And feel the rage
Easing from His words.
Do I let the bird
I’ve caged, free?
I’ve thought all this time
I’ve kept him safe,
But I was wrong.
He longs
To sing in song
And be free.
Slowly, lest I appear weak,
I unlatch the cage.
My breath is hushed—
There is no more rage.
The song is familiar
Though it’s new.
Ah, I think it’s my soul’s song,
A hymn and gift,
“I called you.”
Parasites of the Heart
They nestle into my flesh,
These parasites—
Weaving through my palpitating heart—
Their spaghetti shaped figures worm
Their way,
Constricting my innards,
My essence
Sick with secrets.
I feed their movements,
Create them—
Frankenstein fashion—
To keep inside
From all the world,
Including me.
I created Thee?
Now you shall destroy me.
Friends: Bridge the Divide
Time’s not on our side
To bridge the divide.
In many ways and in many things
I have behaved unfitting,
As a child, a spouse, and to you, a friend,
But does an act or word make an end?
Time’s not on our side
To bridge the divide.
We carried dreams in our small hands,
And, separate, went to distant lands.
The span of distance measured more than miles.
Once we’d returned, we’d both changed our styles.
Time’s not on our side
To bridge the divide.
Shaped by forces stronger than we
Forming beliefs, neither conceived.
We met again over a wanting meal
And somehow friendship had lost its appeal.
Time’s not on our side
To bridge the divide.
Now a return to yesteryear somehow won’t do.
I’m afraid the visit would make us blue.
But, your bringing to one parts that are two,
Always reminds me what was best about you.
Time’s not on our side.
So let’s bridge the divide.
Stormy Afternoon
The trees catch the falling rain,
Hushing it, like a child,
Soothed in the womb.
The trees sway in the wind
Like an elephant, mid-step, swinging his trunk.
Nature’s sounds rush through the low-lighted woods,
God’s thunder rumbles against the sky.
The Lord is near.
Was it today or for thousands of years?
Only Adam knows.
The clouds, one indistinct gray,
Are having their say—
It’s too wet to go outside.
Beyond Golgotha
He holds the hands of those who sorrow
Who’ve no bread for tomorrow.
He carries children who trip in travails;
Bore our burdens in His hands with nails.
Hombre, Hombre, man of sorrows.
Lead my yolk with heavy twine.
Crush my heart, bleeding wholly Thine.
You smoldered my sin to a fragrant aroma
And died that I might live beyond Golgotha.