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? "

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.

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.

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.

Grandma Catalina's funeral

Grandma Catalina's Funeral: 

I was 5-years-old

When I went to my Grandma's funeral 

In the little town of Bernalillo, 

In the Land of Enchantment, 

New Mexico, 

USA.

I remember standing 

Next to my aunt Lourdes, 

At  Our Lady of Sorrows

Catholic church.

 

She held my hand

As I watched the priest 

Sprinkle holy water on 

My grandma's coffin, 

And then he sprinkled 

Holy water on

The congregation.

 

A single drop 

Landed 

On my tia Lourdes's 

Nose. 

That drop gave me a 

Glistening wink

While it just hung 

On the tip of her nose 

Without dripping off.

 

I watched

And waited 

For it to fall.

But it just continued

To hang and 

Wink.

  

I wondered 

Why

My tia Lourdes

Did not 

Wipe 

It 

Off. 

The Good Lord's Work

A kilt wearing Irishman
Gulped a swig of Guinness
While he sat next to me

In an Irish pub nearby.

"Would ye be knowing," he said,

" 'tis not healthy

For a man to wear pants."
He took another swig
Of his dark brown Guinness.

"And squish those precious jewels

That God gave him?"

I wanted to reply,
But I didn't know what to say.

He dismounted his barstool

Put his hands on his hips

And jutted his chin
To make his point.
"The good Lord, didn't make 'em

To swing

In a hanging basket

So ye could wrap 'em

In tight suffocating pants."

I threw my hands up.
"What am I supposed to do.
I can't run around naked."

He held his big belly

And laughed with a sneer.

"Would ye be knowing

Where to buy you a fine kilt

In this here town?
If ye do,
Buy one.
And don't insult the good Lord's work
By stuffing yer jewels

In ball squshing panties."

I wear my kilt from time to time,

And I don't wear panties

When wearing it.
I wouldn't want to insult

The good Lord's work.