- I am valued at my job.
- I have five days off beginning tomorrow.
- My family keeps me very busy.
- I am firmly redirected when necessary.
- I have opportunities to be generous and responsible.
- After 4,000 miles since the last tune-up, I brought my bicycle in for a complete overhaul at a good bike shop. They called me today to say it’s ready 🙂
Not sure what it is, this feeling, these pictures insinuating themselves on my psyche, demanding that their stories be told.
One of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, thinks of herself as a reporter rather than a poet. I can relate. When I try to fabricate something to write a poem about, it never works. There must be some outside influence, some inspiring factor that provides the impetus to express, imagine, emote and compose.
Sure, I organize the thoughts. But the organization is approved elsewhere.
Call it my muse, a connection with Spirit, the finger of the Almighty writing on my heart, it forces me to see, to picture, to stumble over phrases worthy to frame this feeling, this emotion, this vision.
Who- or whatever you are, thank you.
Sometimes, though, you come out
Wave your pretty tail in my face
Undulating your jeweled body
Swiveling your lidless eye at me
I sprinkle the surface with verse
You consume eagerly
Maybe even greedily
With a little splash and thrash
You regard me for a moment after
Eyes swiveling to take me in
Then dart away again
Back to your hiding places
Once in a while you jump up
Capture me in a bubble
Abduct me into your world
As an encapsulated guest
You show me a couple of rocks
I sense they are part of a greater meaning
One is blue and one is green
But that’s all I ever know
The bubble pops and I find myself
On the floor in a puddle
My head in a muddle
And you once again in hiding
- More poets are sending me more poetry
- Relatively cool, sunny days for bicycling to work
- I am currently instrumental in the blossoming of others – first, my wife as she starts a business as a meditation leader; second, as an editor who inspired an accomplished poet to write fiction
- Lessons on advanced appreciation are coming to me
- I am excelling at my day job
This week at Eye On Life Online Magazine we’re featuring former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma, Carol Hamilton. She sent us five poems and we enjoyed them all so we published them. I hope you’ll stop by and read her work.
As the light fades to golden, the daily gift
Of dusk that gently ends a sunny day
Gilds everything with a nostalgic glow
The blue sky gives way
Slowly, in a reluctant letting-go
As if parting with its beloved
With a slight ripping of the heart
To know true darkness.
For in the absence of the sun
The day ceases its existence.
Only elsewhere is it day anymore.
The sky, bereft its solar glow
Waits while only distant stars
And the remembrance candle moon
Mitigate what otherwise would be isolation.
Anything but a sky might feel desperation.
For, though fair, celestial beauties spare no heat
For the far removed and incomplete.
Releasing the hand of my beloved
I watch the light slowly fade from these illusions
Leaving them as transparent as I
Walking these empty ways, seeking
In vain the warmth I dreamt.
Twinkling in perception’s vaulted dark
Unreachable bright pin points mark
A fake sky where sadness clung and passion burned
And the world made every appearance that it turned.
Content in mysteries, I’ll not ask why
From the wordless stars and empty sky.
In the quiet dawn of what is
Though my heart is a brick
I will be grateful
Though these days are like an endless shopping mall
Filled with many things I do not want
I will be grateful
Because I know they are not endless
And we must be grateful
For the temporary
For the moment
That we will never see again
And this mall
Though shiny and offensive with its cheap wealth
Proffering all the tools of the masquerade
That around this mall parades –
Costumes to create the appearance of beauty
Scents to mask the smell of sickness
Shiny objects to distract the eye from the truth
A miracle bra for the woman
A pair of socks for the boy to put in his pants
Everything a person could want
To hide that for which they are most ashamed
And the animal fat of its so-called “food court”
Where I can ingest obesity and disease
Where the recipes
All have as the main ingredient
“Life-long tortured animal”
And every bite
Is filled with animal hate and fear
I know somewhere in here
There is something for me
Something that I want
I know because I made this mall
I know there is someone kind
Who will take my hand
And walk with me right the fuck out of here
No, wait, never mind
I’ll get my own ass up and walk out of here
Out to where the forecast says
There is a one hundred percent chance
Every single day
Where I can wake up to what is
With a beating, open heart
Grateful I had the chance
To go to the mall
And come back home
To the quiet dawn
Of what is