Who Cares - What Matters
IN JUST A MOMENT
You inherently know that when you bring what you have to what I don’t and then someone comes and shares what none of us have
but now has TOGETHER, amazing things GROW. . .
A HANDFUL OF SEEDS ARE A HANDFUL OF NOTHINGS
UNTIL THEY MEET THE DIRT
THAT INVITES THE WATER
TO GROW. . .
It doesn’t matter if you’re religious or not, the universal truth is the universal truth, which is from dust we come and to dust we return; it’s not a new revelation that we’ve known where we came from and we know where we’re going to return, but it’s the NOW; it’s THE MOMENT that lets us know there’s so many moments in our lives; lifetimes within lifetimes, which define us, and more, lets us know we have a grit about us that’s much stronger than any ash or speck of dust that’s ever challenged us.
GUILTY: I wrote this poem weeks before Ash Wednesday, as a matter fact, because I was having an Ash Wednesday Moment where I felt just about as low as a speck of dirt and even less meaningful. We live Ash Wednesday moments almost on a daily basis because we don’t live in a perfect world and we certainly are not perfect people. And yet, and yet, look at how much we can accomplish by being more than just a mere speck of dust that we ever seem day by day to be returning. So, rise up and let the wind take you where it may, and as it does, leave your smudge, your mark along the way. . . .
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Bits of grit
the Wind
scatters us
where it will
as we travel
to destinations
not yet GPSable
but have waited
an Eternity
to welcome every
irritating speck
of us
Home
(however we define it)
(wherever we find it)
or it unearths
Us
OUR STRENGTH
OUR POWER
IS FOUND
BY RECOGNIZING
THAT AS MERE SPECKS
WE ARE NOT A PART OF A MOUNTAIN
BUT THE MOUNTAIN IS A PART OF
U S
We probably all did it. . .
not only played in mud. . .
but actually
A T E I T
. . .No
it wasn’t probably one of my brightest thoughts
or better days
but then again
sometimes the
l e s s o n s
we learn aren’t the most
tastiest
but they do cause an
unforgettable memory. . .
I remember the day
I remember playing by myself in the side yard
with a spoon
that doubled as a
shovel
or a food digger. . .
What I don’t remember
is when I wrote the poem
or obviously where I put
the scrap of paper
I scribbled it on. . .
M U D P I E S
I re-member
the first mud pie
I ever ate
Tasted like none other
Made it myself
playing in
side yard
dirt pile
looked like
Nestle’s Quick
Stirred in
Dribbled hose water
mixed oh so messily
t h i c k
no stones for
supposed crunches
big soup spoon
didn’t daintily taste
boldly gulped
too proud
to spit out
too embarrassed to admit
for many calendar pages later
yet still knowing
it wasn’t the worst
thing I ever
m o u t h e d
or
t a s t e d
even now
the smile has never
ceased
or begun
to wane
intoxicatingly
d e l i c i o u s
May I have
A N O T H E R
It’s been a long time. . .
running through a mud puddle
or eating a horrible mud pie
thought to be the richest
most indulgent of chocolates. . .
uhhhhhhh. . .
maybe too long. . .
but there’s always another mud puddle
that awaits
calls
taunts
Even now
it continues to teach:
JUST BECAUSE
THE WATER SETTLES
DOESN’T MEAN
I HAVE TO. . .
You?
Come on. . .
I hear the water is fine
. . .and the taste. . .
s e c o n d t o n o n e
