Category Archives: Letting Go

Wishful Thinking.

If there’d been
A way
I’d have found it.
If there’d been
A choice
I’d have made it.
If there’d been
More time
I’d have held it.
If there’d been
More clarity
I’d have seen it.
If there’d been
Less confusion
I’d have been
More decisive.
If I’d seen sooner
I’d have chosen
Something different.
If there’d been
More –
More
I’d have held onto it.
It was so wrong
In all the
Right ways
But wishful
Thinking
Doesn’t create
A happier ending
From something
Started with someone
Who was never
Really
Meant to stay.

Antihero.

You were a mistake
I enjoyed making
Though if I could
Do it again,
I’d have done
It in a different
Order – let the
Growing come first
Let the healing
Precede the wound.
But perhaps it
Was only our trauma
Which between us
Grew into something
Intense and temporary.
It’s one of life’s
Dichotomies
A grand conspiracy
Which says the shortest
Stories burn the
Hottest and the doomedest
Anti-heroes are the most
Heroic.

Love and Light.

Love and light
I send unto you,
Not for you but
For me.
Though there is
No fault nor
Blame,
Though there is
No cause to feel
Shame –
I send love and
Light because
All disruption
Lives within
Me.
There’s no
Pain you’ve
Caused me nor
Hurt that I’ve felt
That you could ever
Undo.
If anyone is
Holding onto the
Poison,
It’s me.
I may have every
Reason
And every justified
Excuse,
But my soul
Longs to sing
A higher pitch.
I cannot return
To the heights that
I crave
With this anchor
I’m holding
Within.
I remember the
Wound and the
Wounding,
And anger returns with
A fire –
So I stoke the
Embers and
Utilize
Their ferocity to
Carry the light.
I smile and send
Love.
I send light because
That’s my right.
I’m connected
By my soul’s
DNA to the
Infinite source of
Love –
There’s never an
Empty well,
There’s never a
Dark night.
I cannot exhaust
What flows freely,
What’s given without
Condition or
Due.
So when I think
Of how another’s
Wronged me,
I send love
And light
And feel my spirit
Return to her
Place of
Peace within.

Return.

When it was
Black or white
There were
Two choices,
Obey or
Else it’s a
Sin.
All of the horrors
That came from
Other’s
Voices
“Thou shalt not”s
“You are born
Corrupt
Within!”
Birthed into a
World filled with
Evil,
Where every devilish
Delight
Looks a friend,
Fading to
Nothing
To somehow
Fit in.
Beaten
By other’s
Yardsticks,
Stopping so
The punishment
Might end.
Learn to navigate
Life
Lived lonely,
Where even friends
Are playing
Pretend.
Learn to study
And measure
The cracks to
Fall through
As defense.
Learn to
Sneak
And slither,
Learn to watch
Others fall,
Learn to wait
With patience,
Learn to
Listen to all.
Hear words
With pure meanings
And see actions
As they are,
Learn to hang back
And wait
Watching
As the storybook
Rules
Are broken by
New laws.
Lean against
The tree of
Their savior
And feel what it
Was to give
Everything
To thier unanswered
Call.
Then turn to
Your own gentle
Neighbor
And see the confusion,
Minds spinning
To solve –
Each and every
Dilemma
Through rules
Meant for
Ancients;
Hear the words
“I die
So you may live.”
Whose life
Are you living?
To whom are you
Giving?
What’s your
Choice now?
What do you
Desire?
If it’s wealth
That you seek
Go and get it.
If it’s peace,
Lay down your
Arms.
If it’s love
You want
Be open,
If it’s happiness
Then that’s
Also your job!
The world is
Helpful and
Changing
Ever to accommodate
Our desires.
The question
Was lost in
Translation
It was never
“What will you
Give?”
The question
That life begs
To pardon:
“What is it that
Your loving
Heart desires?”
Blacks and whites
Work for those
Who want nothing,
Who need little
From life but
To feel safe.
Blacks and whites
Give comfort
To scared
Children
Who cannot
Believe in
Themselves.
Play the game
Of my daddy
Can beat
Yours,
Or play the
Game of
This is my choice.
My father
Is a
Gentle man
Of peace,
And we all
Preferred it
That way.
“Billy said his
Dad can beat you
But I told him
You’re the best”
My father chuckled
And shook his
Head
“I don’t want
To beat anyone up.
I probably could
But that’s not
My job.”
Next time Billy
Spoke of my father,
I told him
“My dad doesn’t
Want to beat yours.”
Billy said my dad
Was too scared
Hoping to keep
Me engaged.
I walked away.
Those who
Only know
Violence
Can imagine life
No other way,
And those who
Live life gentle
Are free to choose
How to play.
Love started
Freely given
To others at war
With all haste
Thinking they would
Love me peaceful
If only shown
There’s no need
To be afraid.
It was never
About an exchange,
Love was never
A commodity.
But the love
I desired
Was empty
And so I
Patiently wait.
My mother was
My own secret
Weapon
For those who
Would not
Hear the whisper
Of peace.
She’s quieter now
As we both
Stand on this
Shore
And wait for
The return
Of brave and gentle
Noble King.

Christmas Eve.

The hour draws near
And there are tests
Yet to take
And the test maker
Is away from her
Post.
The substitute has
Charms,
More than a few,
And the time is
Growing late.
There are distractions
Beguiling
And tempting,
Diversions
Plentiful await,
But the rewards
Are intrinsic aplenty
And pure intention
Carry me
Through.
So I retreat
To familiar
Abode –
Second home
When childhood
Was drifting
Afar –
And seeking the
Calm and the silence
Just before the test
Is due.
It’s dim here
The light is fading,
So I’ll locate
The switch
On the wall,
And just as miraculous
As electricity,
The new perspective
Reveals
A Christmas Surprise!
Balloons come to life
By lamplight
And rise to meet
Heaven’s walls
And in the
Excitement and flurry
Distract from the
Fancily wrapped
Gifts scattered
Inside.
I rush to the nearest
And most festive
And lift the label
To read
And there scrawled
In blue ink:
From a dear
Friend’s widower
To one who once
Was my all.
Surveying the other
Packages,
I knew instant
And immediately
No labels bore
My name;
No gifts here
Were meant for me.
I wanted to play
With those others
But chose myself
Instead,
And gifts
Offered for another
Seemed almost to
Derail.
Now awake I
Ponder my vision,
What could the omen
Mean?
The instrument
Of my labor
Was never intended for
Me.
It was a joy
To be paid to
Play,
It was a thrill
To craft and hone,
But most importantly
It was a testament
To the power
Of what a tiny
Measure of belief
Can do.
For one who’d forgotten
To dream,
For one whose
Pragmatism
Was a smokescreen
For judgement and blame,
For one who
Believed himself
In prison,
I showed him
To freedom
By other means.
I never doubted what
I’d not learned to
Doubt,
It never occurred
To me I’d
Ever fail.
I chose the environment
For my studies –
I chose to prepare
To test well.
I chose the comfort
Of familiar,
I chose to doubt
Anything could be
For me.
I chose to be
About my own
Business,
I chose to see
To my own
Concerns,
And when I was
Confronted
By misgiven gifters,
I nearly
Allowed myself
To sink into
Self-pity;
I nearly chose to
Forsake it all.
The secret about
Gifts is in the
Sharing –
None benefit from
Binding them
In wrapping and
Bows.
Even gifts addressed
To another
Create magic
To be felt
And exquisitely
Expressed
By all.
No gifts can
Ever be misgiven,
No time is ever
A waste;
No choice can
Be the wrong one,
No love is
Ever in vain.
Back onto
Bigger and better,
I’ve grander
Business to see to.
My choice is
Value and substance,
Trifles
Never will do.

Christmas eve morning my son woke me up mid-dream just as I was reading the label on a blue gift which was wrapped with very gaudy foil-wrap. I spent a good part of the day deciphering what the dream meant to me.

Foreigner.

Writhing vines
And crunchy leaves
And twisted
Snarly snares
Bare witness to
Her treasonous
Trespass,
While
All the while
A surly
Landskeeper slumbers
In his shed,
His head
Drowned in absinthe
And anise dreamscapes
Divine.
Maiden fair
Untended,
Intended,
Betrothed to the
Snapdragons
And dandelions,
A blanket of
Pollen
Her dowry,
Into crickety
Rickety
Canoe
Climbs.
She gathers her
Skirts
Of baby’s breath
And fastens a veil
Of honeysuckle,
And pushes
Off into
The wintry winding
Bubbling
Babbling
Brook.
In Ophelia’s
Repose she
Exhales a lilac
Breeze.
Hawthorne’s
Child
No longer,
That ambrosia
Formulary
Forgot to unbind
And found itself
Apoptosetic;
The inner clock –
Dickery-dock –
Does chime.
Time’s hands
Turn back
Like windmills
Unfettering
Millstones
Long tied,
They slip-
Drop splishy-
Splash-splosh
Like unhitched
Anchors
Into the depths
Left behind.
Gentle current
Carry this maid
Steady forward
As the winding
River widens
And bends
Round tangerine
Clouds stretched through
Indigo skies.
Those yester-shores
Now are foreign
And old tongues
Twisted to
Dialects new,
And slumbering
Landskeepeers
Forgotten,
And multi-chromatic
Schematics lose
Their hue.