like a lone hand
drops of rain
are the memories
that grab me
out of the gray
and i am
my inner child
has an old soul
wide eyed in wonder
with a weighty load
my old soul cares
for an inner child
and hopes to still see
wonder with wiser eyes
I wake to a morning of dismay,
caught up in the troubles of the day,
ensnared in what I cannot change
and a world that won’t rearrange
into a kinder, gentler place
where I’m just another runner in the human race.
Somehow I’ve learned that being painfully aware
is synonymous with showing that I really care
when I simply get caught up in the hoplessness
and the news of another’s tragic distress
which sucks the strength right out of my bones
and leaves me feeling so alone.
There seems to be a lesson here,
rising out of the worry and fear,
that perhaps there is a Voice I should be listening for,
Creator cares for this world so much more
than I ever can or will
and it is with that Love I seek to be filled.
I rarely pay attention to what I inhale and exhale.
My breathing is automatic.
I take in the air around me and rarely notice its movement in my lungs, the taste of it in my mouth.
I used to long for the mountaintop experience and now I wonder if there is such a thing, if the thin air found at the apex distorts one’s view.
The idea that one should go to the mountaintop to find the answers now seems somehow suspect to me. Such experiences far too often seem to fade rather quickly when one re-enters the everyday of middle earth.
There is a sickness that comes with remaining in places devoid of oxygen, where the air is thin and the mind can wander and cease to be clear.
One can see far but perhaps the sight is a distraction.
Sometimes I wonder if the answers are found simply by going underground into the inner caves that reside within my soul.
O, for the patience to remain on the ground and learn to breathe again.
I leave my house and the wet snow strikes my face.
perhaps it is the rain
the gray of the day
the fog across the window panes
the wet that keeps
the hounds at bay
the clap of refrain
where fingers stray
to jog across a tender frame
the fret that weeps
the sounds of a ukulele
the trap of my brain
the notes that play
and slog across my inner disdain
regrets that sleep
in mounds of dismay
perhaps it is the rain
the tune of the day
the dog that sees me with eyes of pain
sets aside the sheep
having found her prey
I see through a glass dimly
even more so when I am about
the work of my hands and the
dust of my labors coats the
lens of my glasses.
They are rarely clean and the
cloth I use to keep them from
being scratched resides in
another place. So I resign myself
to moments without clarity
until I have time to truly
clear my sight again.
It is an annoyance more than
anything. I can still see well
enough to work and I am committed
to using only that material
which will not scratch my lens.
Yet in the moment after
I have wiped the debris away,
I realize again how precious
are those brief times of
of unblurred vision.
Rain is the adhesive for falling leaves, creating mechanical trees.
Our Godgle who art online, hollowed be thy name,
Thy thingdom has come, thy will being done on earth as it is in cyberspace.
So weave us this day our daily web,
And forgive us our sims as we forgive those who simulate against us,
And lead us not into discontinuation but deliver us from the believable,
For thine is the programme to devour the story, forever and ever, Amen.
Sitting here in my chair of reflection,
I seek the missing words,
those that found me yesterday,
coming so fast I did not
have time to capture them
before they were gone,
winging away like
I am the flower they feed upon,
the nectar for their
If I wait, they will return.
The page fills again.
My stories are carried
away on the wind.