A Sea-Grass Elegy

We come, but like the wind that blows,
We pass. Into our hibernation,
Hidden in recesses and in nooks,
Until the passing crowd goes mute.

We reach, but like the grass that waves,
We’re firmly rooted to what we can do,
The limits of our kind,
And scarcely see beyond our patch of land.

But: every other Saturday,
In full imagination,
We stand upon a pedestal
For our great peroration,
And rustling and whistling,
We lightly brush the ground,
Our eyes turned upward toward such stars
As never can be found —

We try. We spread our loving arms
To take in all that we can touch;
But tethered to our practices,
It’s all just undulation.

We breathe, but like the mournful sea,
Our whisperings don’t reach the ears
Of all the many, focused on their vanities
And cares.

How is it we cannot escape
These harnesses that bind us?
Why can’t we move away to where
Our loving ones can find us?
Was there a rhythm I could beat
Or melody I knew of
That taught this secret to our souls
You’d see the great debut of
This majesty, this honesty,
This all-too-often sought for —
And we could lay down arms for winning
All that we had fought for —

We sing, but like lonely gulls,
We cry for all we cannot say,
And live to see another sunrise
Of the few we’re granted.

We live, but like the wind that blows,
We pass. Our lives, an oscillation,
Hidden in our stretches of the earth,
Until our waves pull back from shore.

The Dirt In Our Choices

Your favorite little place, that so few people knew about. Somebody’s small business. A place that always felt like home.

You noticed things there, of course. When the floor started looking a little dirtier. When it took a little longer to get service, or those occasions when what you always liked to get there wasn’t available.

Then, one day, the “closing” sign went up. Not long after that, a “thank you for your business” sign was placed outside the now-locked door.

You think of all the times you went there; but more, you think of all the times you didn’t. When you chose other businesses, places that were a little newer, or maybe a little flashier. And you think back to that dirtier floor, and you wonder: did I put that dirt there? Was that dirt a result of my choices?

All our choices have dirt in them, I’m afraid. Those corrosive elements we carry with us that foster life in their original setting, but are inimical to life when transferred. The business we don’t visit. The family we don’t call. The friends we don’t reach out to when we think maybe we need to.

Even the better habits we never get around to forming.

Life is a cycle of openings and closings, starts and finishes, births and deaths. What makes life meaningful is what we do with the time in-between. We can’t stop the gears from winding down, but we can, maybe, not add quite so much dirt onto the gears.

Your favorite little place, that so few people knew about. Somebody’s small business.

And a choice that’s not there to make anymore.

The Yearning Season

We seek, at times, we-know-not-what,
Empowered by our yearning;
A season’s born and dies away,
The restless earth keeps turning

We scan, we search, expectantly,
Just hoping that we’ll see it —
The future that we long for, maybe
We were meant

To be it

Gulf View

I grew up with this.

Gulf View

I grew up with this for a view
But I was not enchanted;
To me, it just was what there was
I took it all for granted

I don’t think I was spoiled rich
But I do have a hunch
My appetite for views was poor
Since I was out
To lunch