Subscription

I subscribe to the  belief

that the world gets better
with each generation,
the universe takes care
of itself and us.

I susbscribe to the notion

that no news is good news.
I take in only as much
daily as I can take, then stop.

I try to remain a neutral

In hostile situations
like politics and religion
where I could do harm
but rarely good.

People may think I don’t

have strong views or aren’t informed
and they would be dead wrong.

My happiness is

dependent on me alone.
I stay at the helm of this
life of mine, pick and choose
what to take in (when I can)
and what to give out.

Parents

I wish there wasn’t a father’s day

Or mothers day either.  People talk
about their parent, now passed away--
oh, how great he was, how much they gave,
what a loving mother she is. This brings
a sadness I can’t locate.  A longing.

I get lost in my thoughts, left out,

but I tire quickly of my self-indulgence.
I follow my thoughts to my reality.
I think what a good dad
my kids had and have. How I believe
I was a good mom, certainly
no one could try harder than we two.

When I celebrate , I applaud my husband

and what he gave our kids,
what he gives them today.
I think about what is important for us,
that we did the best we could,
that thought often leads me to this:

maybe they did, too.

Fortress

A fortress against most storms,

strength like that of a hulk, you hunk!

Love of the Romeo,  I believe you’d die for me.

Sunshine that peeps through a dark cloud.

A fortress like Neuschwanstein Castle, part fairy tale,

the rest my magnificent reality.

Poets and Writers

What strange bedfellows

This group of poets and writers can be

Tethered as we are by love of words.

We gather, talk, drink coffee, eat snacks

And give up our offering for the night.

Poets and writers find they are all crazy or eccentric or bored, with

Inability to have a conversation unless we are behind the computer keys.

Some are lazy, and all are addicted to the written word, especially our own--

That creative spirit don’t you know.

I heard all other poets are jokes, can’t write, are idiots,

That some are self-absorbed and write like teenagers in love

Instead of the wizened intelligencia that we are.

I know he thinks a masters degree is the only proof that you can write,

That gives you the right to put pen to paper,

While she is sure it’s a god given talent or calling.

We enjoy jealousy, envy, disorganization, all to different degrees

And we decree when it’s us against the pitiful non-writer,

That we have the answer

But unlike the evangelist’s fervor,

We don’t think everyone is privy to it.

But when we gather, oh, when we gather

It’s is the most beautiful thing

To see, talk to, and be with the only other people who know what we are about,

Who can delve into their very souls and tell me about mine and yours. 

They can make us weep with their words and laugh at the same.

They have me in the palm of their hands

And to be near them is to be truly me.

Always

What gathers the wind will bring you to me
in a breeze or a touch from a limb against my skin.
Not of here, somewhere in between you and me,
a place I only get glimpses of when you are near.

I see your gift when an insect appears,

your message in a penny heads up.
I no longer question.  To be a part of this-- I feel,
or you will be gone before I have a complete thought.

I hear your voice when the door opens, feel your presence.

I heard what you told me when I walked in the dark wet night,
though no words were spoken.
My tympanic drum is tuned to your whispers.

I sense you in every way..gentle and true
I don’t share except with those who love you, too.
I would not dishonor you or your memory

by telling our secrets to people who can’t see.

Cozy

"Remember, you are not here to play it safe.
You are here to start fires." - Sera Beak.

I follow my longings for solitude
curled up in my benign winter
with cozy fire, I read, I write, I paint.
This feeds me, clothes me in comfort.

A push into the fire of summer
is what I need. I don’t acknowledge
for I’d have to move outside this zone
I’m snuggled in. I begin to feel

like molasses aged, without the inspiration
outside my den. I have to stretch, reach,
go; sometimes I get too cozy.