Healing

This is a very personal poem about being healed:

My body has been torn from me.

My soul has splintered.

Sheer will moves my feet, my hands,

and keeps the molecules from spinning free.

The body remembers being whole.

The soul remembers being one with God.

May this touch give the memory of being,

so you can find the path back to yourself.

My body aches from carrying these cares,

My soul tires fast from holding self together.

I cannot ask again to be a child,

to be tucked in, to be without a care.

The body remembers the cradle of the womb.

The soul remembers union with the Infinite.

May this touch remind you of your Source

and bring you back to its seeds within yourself.

Eentsy-teensy poem

Somewhere there’s a museum full of you,

White walls and crimson leaves, repeated over.

I flick the light switch off and close the door,

And step outside into the misty autumn.

PS: The Words Are Important

I had just enough words left in my mind for a poem:

Just words,
all I have to offer
in the darkling storm.

You, my stranger,
read the words as rain
from a storm you cannot touch.

To you, the story
is that you found the words
when no one else noticed,

the words only important
when they crawled into you,
and became fluttering birds.

A Really Short Poem

Note to readers: I’d like to call this Elegy, but only if it plants doubt rather than certainty that the subject is dead. Anyone want to weigh in?

At the reservoir,

Fishing pole in hand,

I tell a story to the wind you’ll never hear.

To know is to know is to know –

We could have argued that

All afternoon over coffee and tea,

But the distance between

Is words and stories and seas.

I tell a story to the wind you’ll never hear.

Short poem

If a writer sits in a forest

And the tree doesn’t fall,

Does anybody hear?

Too late, skip that,

Hey there, nice hat,

How you been, good day,

Hope you feel better soon

If the bird sits in the forest,

Keeps his song to himself –

Does anybody know?

No time, too rushed,

Gotta go catch my bus,

Still don’t know why

I don’t have any time.

If a forest lives

In the heart of a writer

And nobody sees it,

Does anybody care?

A Short Poem

This, as always, may get revised. I like how it started being about one thing and ended up about something else:

Ephemera

I do not see pictures in my head,

Or not as you do – this old slide

Of yellowed Kodachrome slides past my mind

I see hair or expression, never both.

I stare at you when you are here with me,

I memorize your patterns: swinging hair,

Glasses, a squint, a laugh, a lumbering walk,

All of those together equal you.

I fear to lose you in a crowd;

Too many people almost look like you

I live on faith that you’ll come back to me