Most of the time
a blank page
or a pen
aren’t ever necessary. . .
T H E Y
just come
in conversations
mostly to myself
at all hours of the day
and yes. . .
even in the middle of the night;
In fact,
some of the greatest ones are those
never scribbled down
or uttered/mumbled out
on a voicemail to self. . .
M O N K E Y M I N D
or
just creative genius. . .
the only thing
known for sure
is if there’s meds for it
I’ll refuse them. . .
It’s defined me
longer than I’ve held a pencil
or asked for notepads for
Birthday presents. . .
THEY JUST COME:
O R
MY PLAN A
INCLUDES THE POSSIBILITIES
OF OTHER OPTIONS
O R
O R
. . .JUST WHICH THREAD
WOULD YOU UNRAVEL
FROM YOUR TAPESTRY
O R
THE UNKNOWING PARISHIONER
Though the winter wind
blows its snow freely
like a strike-at-midnight
New Year’s Eve
Confetti Parade
The Church bell rings
not
It’s candles remain unlit
It’s organ
more silent than a
fingerless mute
No Word spoken
heard
or becoming flesh
and yet
there’s a powerful
sermon preached
not for the listener
or a waiting ear
but for the interpretation of an
open heart
and an unbowed head
The Altar may not be
knelt before
The Communion
only for a Serving
for One
from Another
Sacred
Holy
Hallowed
Deeper than a feeling
Closer than a next drawn Breath
More needed than an unnoticed Heartbeat
Grasped with fingers of faith
and never completely
explained
understood
It’s a game
only played by
c h i l d r e n
where the hiding and the seeking
are the same
and when you’re
t a g g e d
as you are
You know
Are sure
You Are IT
(written quickly with a cold hand on rumbled piece of legal pad while taking a break from shoveling snow after a recent snow storm that canceled church services)
IN PASSING
If Death is a roller coaster ride
forgive me for not standing in line
waiting to get on
I’m begging for a dying man’s pardon
for not paying Admission
To THAT
not-so-Amusing-Park
If Death
is sitting sea side
gentle breeze
warm sun
family nearby
splashing in the surf
my favorite playlist
glass of bourbon
over-sized ice cube bobbing
cuban cigar
book in hand
with others by my side
peeking out of an undersized satchel
By all Means
move me to the front of the line
Press
R E P E A T
repeatedly
Let me
Live my Death
whatever’s past
the largest number
TIMES
the next largest number
(Written shortly after walking out of patient’s room who had just died with her husband, son and brother at her bedside REMEMBERING unceasingly between sobs as I facilitated life/faith/family review an intentionally picked open the abscess of grief)
The real question for me:
I have never consciously chosen to write a single
Word
Sentence
Line
Paragraph
Page
Poem
Novel
that hasn’t bled itself out of me
no matter how tight the tourniquet. . .
How come my love
my compassion
my empathy
my caring
hasn’t always flowed just as easily
e f f o r t l e s s l y. . .
That’s the poem
with no rhyme or reason. . .
. . .and sometimes a poem happens
. . .and sometimes something greater:
L O V E
(known)
(shown)
(given)
(received)
