Sunday, December 02, 2018

This Is Winter

This is winter.

It's a depressing time of year

For all who deal with SAD.

Short days flash by

So fast that I barely notice
The sunlight.
The long cold night
Knocks on my front door
So very early.

I try not to let him.

But he slides into the cracks

Around the windows.
I hear him hum his dirge

When he does.
Once he is in,

He tiptoes behind my back

And pulls my shoulders down.

And, if that doesn't satisfy him,

He slithers up
And sits on top of my head.

He reaches down,

His fingers pull down

The edges of my lips.

I have spent years

On that river in Egypt,

Wearing a happy face.

I’ve done that all

In a faulty attempt

To convince myself

That I am impervious

To depression.

Today, I shall step out of that river

And choose to embrace

That life is temporary

And depression is part of life.
It comes and goes.
It leaves me gifts

That I rarely remember

To pick up.
Today, I shall pick one up.
It has two sides.
A dark side

That I feel every winter;

And another side

That feels different, somehow.

I shall embrace the dark

Knowing it is temporary,
And then maybe,

Just maybe,

I can touch the other side

When the days will
Eventually get lighter.


Friday, November 30, 2018

My Hands


When I look at my hands,
I see what I once thought
Were an old man's hands.
I have earned these wrinkled
And aged spotted hands.
My hands have held babies, puppies, and kittens.
They have wiped tears from children's faces.
My hands have cleaned poop, vomit, and crud.
They have thrown newspapers
Onto porches from my bike.
They have swung hammers
That built shelves, green houses, and toys.
My hands have kneaded dough.
When I was in Viet Nam,
They loaded heavy amo
Into the magazine
Beneath our ship's cannon.
My hands have crocheted baby blankets,
Bathing suits and a tostada.
They have picked up kids
Who've crashed their bikes.
I have held hands with my lover,
With elders, and children.
My hands have massaged sore muscles,
And they have brought healing to the wounded.
My hands have patched torn skin
On my mother-in-law’s arm,
And they have applied Band-aides
On children’s scuffed knees.
My hands have played the guitar,
And rhythmically beat the shaman’s drum.
My hands caressed our son’s face,
And stroked his arm
When he was dying.
I am grateful for my wrinkled
And aged spotted hands.

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Depression Is Temporary


Everything is temporary.

When the somber

Lightless fog of depression

Surrounds us,

We are trapped,

Shut up,

Caged and shackled

To the floor.

We repeatedly scrawl

The same question:

What's the point?

The Fog whispers back,

"Everything is pointless."

In those moments,

We agree.

And then we feel it,

Barely noticeable, at first.

The wagging tail

Swishes peripheral sparks

Well before we hear the barks

Of our own internal puppy

Well before we feel the wet kisses

Well before the wagging tail

Blows away the Fog.

And the Fog evaporates

Leaving its underarm stench

To linger for a bit

Before the light of normality

Nods and says,

"I'm sorry it took so long

To come back.

Would you like a cookie? "


Monday, October 22, 2018

Everyone Brings Gifts


Everyone who enters my life

comes with a gift.

I might see it immediately.

Or it might take me years,

through a lot of tears,

Fears and even jeers

Before my heart's eyes

Can pull away the disguise

And reveal the gift.

And it is always there,

Waiting to be uncovered.

Sometimes the gift is Practice.

Oh how hard that gift can be.

When I must practice being
The best version of me.

That gift of practice 
Enhances my very essence

And that is as it should be.

I am grateful for all the gifts

That each and every one brings.

For each gift enhances 
The me that is magically
And lovingly evolving.

Honesty



Why are we sometimes so reluctant to be honest, to speak our truth, as we understand it? Why do we avoid saying what we feel is true? Why is it that sometimes we don't even stand up for ourselves?

Honesty
Sometimes bares
Her Fangs
And slices a stinging cut
So quick,
So deep,
And so painful
That we lash out
Viciously,
With cruel intent
To rip out
The vocal chords
Of the one
Who dares 
To be honest.


Saturday, September 22, 2018

Autumn Aspens














The breeze whispers,  

"Come on, I have a secret  

For you, Little Brother." 

I hike over a ridge. 

"Aye que Bonita!" 

The aspens wave their little hands.  

I hike into an aspen grove. 

They click their tongues  

And giggle when I enter.  

"He sees us," an aspen says.  

"He knows," says another.  

"Be with us," they say in unison. 

"Breathe in our charm, 

Relish in our beauty. 

Acknowledge your own." 

I stand in the grove. 

Happy. All smiles.  

They click their yellow tongues, 

"He hears us.  

He is turning yellow, too." 

I bow in gratitude. 


I walk out of the grove  

Glowing yellow.  

I am happy.


Sunday, September 16, 2018

Walking In the Forest Darkness

I have walked in the forest darkness
That stole every nuance of light,
And inhaled all evidence of shadow.
My hand outstretched,
Waiting for something,
Anything that might
Crash, cut, or bruise my body.
My feet stepped on dirt, and rocks, and leaves
With caution as they sent ripples
Of blind butterflies banging
And clanging the interior
Of my gut.
How could a forest eat all the light?
How could a forest collaborate
With the clouds to steal even the tiniest
Wisp of starlight from the sky?
My ears opened their eyes
But they were so small
And so unused to being used
For seeing
That they were almost,
Not completely, just almost
Useless as I
Walked in the forest darkness
Near Speck Pond, Massachusetts in 1974.