sometimes it seems
all of the days are gray
and the doors closed
without a glimpse of the one
who steps across the threshold
you are the one who walks in the rain past the curious stares of dry children in their after school program coloring within
and further along past the empty storefronts waiting for new tenants
you smile at the woman smoking beneath the dripping eaves
the open sign flashing red behind her
inside at home it is warm
the lights cast off the chill
but you know that you can
never ever leave the gray behind
to not seek to possess
to be a man of largesse
to be capable of caress
to help others in distress
to not seek to impress
to be willing to confess
to offer redress
when i have transgressed
to not suppress
the need to express
to take time to process
and to decompress
to find the courage to profess
that i am a work in progress
to be steady in faithfulness
to resist unkindness
this then is my definition of success
more or less
i awake from deep slumber with thoughts of yesterday’s sadness still raw in my heart and mind. the song break it down again comes to me here in the red light of a cold morning. the weight of what it means to be an aging artist invisible after years of work and where-what now to put my energy towards leaves me curled up in a ball. i have no answers. and yet there is something i think in not becoming overwhelmed by giant thoughts. break it down again. the big picture sometimes just gets bigger and bigger until it floods the senses and leaves me paralyzed by the unknown. break it down again. what are the bits and pieces of a satisfied life. what do i act on. no more sleepy dreaming. break it down again. this is more than success, ego, or legacy. i do not seek the spotlight, but i also am tired of toiling in the shadows. what is my forum. is it time for me to dim, or to burn bright with compassion, to fade into love for the other and leave my dying dreams behind. where can i find in me the beauty of decay.
I prefer the older definitions. They seem less negative, more nuanced.
pine with love or grief.
“she still languished after Richard”
assume or display a sentimentally tender or melancholy expression or tone.
“when a visitor comes in, she smiles and languishes”
This then is an ode to the languishing. It is a place where one has arrived to find broken dreams, unfinished projects, hoped for successes all for naught.
Mr. Hughes spoke of holding fast to dreams, and mine remain close. Yet, I still feel like a broken winged bird that cannot fly, confused, shot from the sky by the unrealized.
Perhaps the time for holding fast is done.
I wonder if languishing is simply another word for letting go.
I do not like this place.
I am afraid.
I do not want to be labeled lazy.
And yet action for action sake is “sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
The tendency is to move! move, damnit!
Who or what determines a life’s success?
Do I still have a good heart, as she told me long ago? Perhaps I will ask her that today.
As my tongue lies thick in my mouth, while I try to learn this new language of languish.
after i dropped him off
and made sure he was
comfortable in his room
through the fog
a mass of white
bit by bit
by going slow
i missed my turn off
confused by the changes
wrought by the mist
places once familiar
the lights adding
to my blindness
i found my
i know not what
the new year holds
the next stop
on the journey
the fog of
the not yet
faith keeps me
on the road
in my love for an
in a small
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.