Love Selflessly

Love selflessly and you will pay the price
  of what it is to give and not receive –
  the heart of flame, returned with touch of ice;
  a soul encumbered, longing to believe;
  the joy that is, at once, a call to grieve
  within the emptiness of letting go —
    but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

Love selflessly, and time will halt its course
  and lay upon your mind the universe;
  at every turn to press with so much force
  that feels a maledictive sort of curse –
  a swirling mist the heart cannot disperse
  that magnifies what we’d least like to show —
    but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

There’ll be an ebb, of course, with every flow:
  but love is worth it, worth it, even so.

a windward flock

she goes into the wind, the way she lived.
the flock of all who struggle, day by day;
and yet, that bracing feeling was a gift —
the purposeful: windblown, who never stray,
majestic and heroic in the way
they move on, through the hardest what, or why,
and still take others with them as they fly.

It Isn’t Me

Truth is pure and clear.

When lies get messy, truth is pure and clear:
I know it isn’t me you’re looking for.
No matter who “you” are out there – or here –
I’m not the wings or wind that makes you soar.
You gaze out, wistfully, and wanting more —
While I, this lifeless thing exist, that you
Can pass a million times, and just look through

12 Perspectives – 3

Fear and hope are sisters, oft confused;
The world has changed so fast since yesterday —
She could not have foreseen what she now feels,
For first times are like strangers in that way.
She wants to run, but also wants to stay:
Her expectation rises, and then sinks —
And why is everything so hard, she thinks.

It’s all embarrassing, and very strange.
To wait and look, but hope that she won’t see:
To relive every gesture and exchange,
And parse out every word to find the key
That can unlock this tangled mystery.
And car goes by, a bird flits through the yard:
She thinks, Why does it have to be so hard?

A New Day’s Year

There comes a time the frost must fall away;
Sometimes the thaw is difficult and slow.
Though night be cold, and bitter be the day,
With snow and rain, and cutting winds that blow,
The sun will work its magic, even so.
Remember when the ice your feeling numbs:
The heat will come. It will. It always comes.

I stood out in a field of many stones.
The trees were frozen white on every side;
Familiar family names, and some unknowns,
Through tears that froze before they ever dried.
So little life the words there could provide:
Of what and where and who all these had been,
These unknown women and forgotten men.

I looked for one, and found him on a hill.
A handshake firm, a strong and steady gaze,
A tender heart withal an iron will,
And ready with encouragement and praise
For fighters of the family fight, always.
The long winds blow, they blew him to this place;
Asleep now in this high and frigid space.

To know of life, we have to know of death.
It seems so cruel, but that is how things are:
The careless, one day, struggling for breath,
The poor unfortunate, the superstar,
Alike in this. We all end up at par.
And it can all seem vanity, and smoke —
A tragedy, or maybe one big joke.

There comes a time the frost must fall away;
Always the thaw is difficult and slow.
Nights will be cold, and bitter yet the day,
With snow and rain, and cutting winds that blow.
The sun will work its magic, even so —
Though tears may freeze before they ever spill,
The heat will come one day.
I’m sure
It will

 

 


Photo credit : ID 62364939 Mulikov | Dreamstime.com

Video credit : © Denys Kovtun | Dreamstime.com

The Moon Is Not A Terrorist

The moon is not a terrorist; in fact,
She often visits both the poor and sick.
Although she has a schedule that is packed,
And often deals with clouds that can be thick,
She’s regular. And knowing that’s the trick:
The moon is true, not subject to caprice,
And that should bring no fear, but only peace.

The moon is not a soldier or a spy;
She does not aim to kill, or try to steal.
The moon’s a corporeal lullaby,
A friend, though far away, who’s very real,
Who gives your very goodnight a words her seal.
As children know, once sung their fav’rite tune,
It’s time to sleep when they hear “Goodnight, Moon”

the day goes past

the day goes past my sight and turns to gray
as distant, floating things become unseen;
so much i’ve known has gone, or dimmed away —-
the brightly colored world of seventeen
has faded like an aging magazine,
and falls within the shadow of the storm,
to lose all hue, and barely keep its form.

the rains must come, they must, i know it’s so,
the sailor find his way back into port —-
the pilot, too, must let her wand’ring go,
and head back home to file her report,
for nature does, at last, our time cut short.
the day goes past, and fades in grays and blues:
we had our time, and what we have, we lose