I woke. My people turned to trees.
Then wondered, if I had the chance
Could I, too, with the cold winds learn
to dance?
It is the grove that gives us life.
The sun, the soil that we share,
The tears of those who watch o’erhead,
their left-by mulch, subconsciously aware —
I sleep; my people growing tall.
Now am I just too fast to feel
The slower dance that’s only dreamed,
but far more
real?
Tag: Time
Thrift Village
Pine cleaner and mildew in an endless battle always smelling,
Fluorescent lights glaring, steel shelves’ bright abundance of overstock;
Wide aisles of sometimes blockage, large displays,
Concerns of new managers and old vendors there daily stopping;
Living always in bargains for that which others
Have passed in affluence;
Thrift village then aging into infirmity, death overlooking —
Knowing only the cracks of light seeping through imprisoning boards
To share is human:
The Burning Ones
I sat and watched the burning ones.
They came in twos and threes:
The night was their intoxicant,
And ardor, their disease —
I see them, too, in memory,
They’re everywhere about —
For when you are a burning one,
You’re destined to
Go out
To share is human:
{ Big Box }
The places in our lives are part of us,
And I spent days with family in these aisles.
So much we buy just seems ridiculous,
The stuff we brought along for all these miles –
Her cousin was the manager a bit;
We’d see him upfront, sometimes, tall and straight —
They let him go before the worst had hit,
So he, his wife, and kids moved out of state.
And I remember toys – my son was small –
Including some my grandkids play with now;
I know that life just happens, that things change,
But some days it still gets to me, somehow.
So many turns and orbits by our clocks,
The once-alive that’s now an empty box
To share is human:
Haute Decor
The flawless decor of the rich
Can keep their sleeping kids in style;
But all of that won’t give kids warmth
Or make the moments worth the while
That they might spend with parents who
Spend all their lives on margin’s call:
While love is riches, strange to say
Mere riches are not love
At all
To share is human:
A Place to Launch
Another phase, another type of platform,
A place to launch, a time to say goodbye;
A thousand things we meant to do, but didn’t,
The Fir-tree and The Catcher In The Rye
The literary lessons learned in losing,
The hopes of soaring ‘neath a brand new sky —
Another phase, another type of platform,
A place to launch, a time to say
Goodbye
To share is human:
A Country Autumn – 10
The paint begins to peel
Our stories start to fade
Our colors start to dim
Our fabrics degrade
But that can never mean
Though time be overriding
That paintings aren’t worth paint
A battles aren’t
Worth
Fighting
