2021 Poems: September thru December
Poem List: 2021 September-December
A Thimble, a Cup Print this poem only
Usually when I open my eyes,
creeping through the blinds a sun rise
brings a thimble of gratitude to my sleepy mind
for yet another day above ground.
But last night
news of flooded darkened homes
faces full of desperation and despair
haunted me
delayed sleep until another morning
was about to dawn.
I turned the lights on
just to make sure.
Now I am awake
and drink
a cup of gratitude.
Written 9-3-21
Spending Print this poem only
When I spend time with you
the investment pays dividends
deposited in my soul
and like a big bowl of cereal in late morning
satisfies my hunger and thirst.
Your listening, whispers
sparkling eyes
arrest my heart
and take it prisoner.
I am yours.
Written 9-4-21
Thorns Print this poem only
The thorns in my side
I try so hard to hide
with humor, cleverness, even kindness
but after so long they are well-planted
like seeds they’ve taken root.
I am a man full of grace and gratitude
even changes in attitude
I float on great waves
in my wooden dinghy
precarious atop mighty waters
and angels visit
take me into smooth azure lagoons
where I reside in peace
even serenity from time to time.
I weep in great sadness
occasional fits of despair
drowning there
I swim up to gulp for air
leap and glide into the light
breathe mercy in my flight
pray for courage and gumption
but discover
I cannot stay afloat alone
so with abandon I dive
into bright souls whose hands and hearts
reach down to rescue me.
Some of them are thorn people too
battered, broken, and rugged
who’ve found the courage to change
the things they could.
I guess these thorns are there
to make me come up for air
to give me the zephyr of humility
the certainty of a love
that save me.
Author’s note: This is written for those who are in the grip of one or more addictions.
Written 9-6-21
The Builder Print this poem only
It is hot
I am sweaty and already tired
a lone mason out here in the sun
my back bent over the edge of the foundation.
Behind me the stack of bricks
in my hand the trowel
snatched up from my weathered toolbox.
My forehead drips joining the goo of mortar
I lay the mortar bed row
and grab the first brick
to begin the southern wall,
the wall that will face the squalls
of this troubled season.
Author’s Note: Sometimes one must begin again the project of building sanity and good mental health.
Written 9-7-21
Surprised by Astonishment Print this poem only
Can I still be astonished
or have I become so inured to the darkness
and fallibility in others
that I expect nothing more?
It does not surprise me if
the wealthy ignore the poor
fundamentalists hate nonbelievers
I eat too much
men abuse women
I forget to stroke my wife’s hair
political fervor stifles compassion
I reject needed correction.
But I am astonished by
nurses and doctors who care for people who abuse them
the tenderness of a mother who loves her malformed baby
when I’m forgiven by someone I’ve hurt bad
childbirth
politicians who compromise for the greater good
a firefighter who runs into a burning building
when my apology is gracefully accepted by a victim of my folly.
Astonishment can
give me hope
lift me from depression
bring a smile in the midst of my sadness
prove my humanity.
Written 9-10-21
It’s like fishing… Print this poem only
Contemplation is like fishing.
Often my reason fails me
and I cast out into the waters
hoping I can catch that vital energy
feel its power, its resistance, its strength
that is elusive
but I know is there
and those moments of connection
with that mysterious force
give me energy.
I am alive
so I keep castings into the ocean
knowing the elan is there,
the verve that takes me from my mind
to dance, to move, to swerve
in that moment of now.
Author’s Note: I bow in gratitude to Brian McLaren and Barbara A. Holmes for their wisdom that inspired this poem and kneel in awe and thanksgiving to all the fish I have caught over the years, for the excitement and nourishment – the life they gave me.
Written 9-11-21
Wilderness Dreams Print this poem only
I awaken in darkness
still terrified and running
from the mountain lion.
But what if I’m the prey
of my own judging
captive of my comparisons?
At times I feel those verdicts in my gut
like when I can’t concentrate on a task
I SHOULD be doing.
When I notice my tight gut
and my mind wanting to flee
I can stop trying
and lying to myself
set my imagination free
roam a wilderness I choose
like right here on the flat and fertile plains
of this poem’s lines.
Written 9-21-21
Forsaking Regret Print this poem only
As she lay there, her face pale, almost ashen
tears flowing,
in her gravelly voice
she said how horrible she felt
about a life so full of mistakes and selfishness
for giving her sister a hard time
being crabby and so critical to her boss
who was also her friend.
She looked into my eyes
regret dripping in every wrinkle
of her rugged face
and she began sobbing.
I cried with her
squeezed her left hand
felt the burden of my own regrets
for the ruts and rocks I had left
in the path of my past.
And I told her she was a different person now
I reminded her that the amends made to me and so many
later in her life were a testament
to a soul redeemed
and now in glory.
She smiled wistfully,
closed her eyes,
and drifted on her tears
into eternity.
Written 9-22-21
Blossom Print this poem only
A man wants to make his mark on the world
to leave something of himself that will endure.
It is the human thing to do.
For some it is children
for some a book
a dare-devil act
or other feat
that will interrupt the routines
of a father, mother, farmer, pipefitter, or pastor
make them pause and notice
for a moment
or even learn a thing or two.
But I wonder if these small interruptions
in the lives of other mortals
are worth
the sweat, angst, hours, gut wrenching
and immense energy of a life.
The sage’s magenta petals fall in the heat of the afternoon
and no man, woman or child notices
but bees lit there and sucked a little life
from the blossoms’ hearts.
Maybe I should be content to bloom
for a few days in summer
then fall away
to the earth
the love
from whence I came.
Author’s Note: A friend of mine just published a book of his poems: Apothecary, by James Kenneth Blaylock. I opened it this morning as I lay in bed trying to wake up. It is a nice little volume of his poems written over many years. It felt good holding it in my hands and remembering James and our little poetry group in our town, remembering him in his wheelchair struggling with his strong arms to propel himself into our lives - which he did. Now he has kids and three books. His gentle voice has been heard. His sad smile has been seen. He has made his mark. Reading his poems, James caused me to reflect for a moment on my own life.
Written 9-27-21
In This Now Print this poem only
It is good to be in this place
in this time
the plants awakening to the light
the soft music
easing into my soul
the candle flickering
the air and me
cool and still
in this now.
Written 10-2-21
Final Judge Print this poem only
Talent shows have judges
who measure the gifts of the contestants
and proclaim who is the best
based on their performance.
We all have gifts given to us
by parents, friends, loved ones, and other teachers,
each of us also being a teacher or gift-giver of sorts
for others and ourselves.
When I judge myself
may I be merciful, wise, and accurate
taking into account
how I became me.
So, now and in the end
may I be the true me
and not a me conjured in my imagination
or a me who became me
by comparing myself to other mes
for in the final analysis
it is all a gift.
Written 10-2-21
It's too late… Print this poem only
It’s just too late
foes on the verge of a trounce
fate is surely defeat.
Is there one more ounce
of hope, of effort
one more cup of fire
to eek out a victory?
It’s too late
to turn back now
you’re too far gone
your past hangs on your ankles
like rusty chains
the ruts in your road too deep
to swerve
to curve
off and out onto smooth.
Besides, you’re too old,
too set in your ways
to change now.
It’s too late baby
It’s too late.
When you were two
it happened to you
the stage was set
too bad my boy.
But I take a deep breath
look up
and smile at the voices describing my supposed fate
determined…
but I say to those voices:
be silent
because now is my moment
to step into brilliance.
Author’s Note: It is too easy to tell myself there is no chance for a future at my age and to give up. I don’t know what it is but I’m just not ready… to give up on the possibilities.
Written 10-3-21
Hidden Canyon Print this poem only
Vines and their tributaries
climb the wall overtake
and name of our neighborhood:
hidden canyon.
Four decades ago
we explored the woods
and found the rocky canyon
etched into the landscape by Ten Mile Creek.
Our limbs were limber
muscles young and strong
adventure coursed in our veins.
But now no woods
just houses and streets
our jaunts into the wild
with woodsy small creatures and critters
are gone.
The mystery we found there
now supplanted by novels, poems and stories
of children, young explorers and writers
and I traverse the thicket
of my small universe
searching the hidden canyons of
mystics, dreamers and poets,
combing a terrain deeply inscribed
by the hand of the divine.
Written 10-4-21
A Crossing Print this poem only
As she crossed the bayou
the dark lily-padded strip of water
seemed a gateway to a wider world.
The train departed
leaving her family and church behind
anxious but excited as the locomotive
slowly picked up steam headed for a world
she had only seen in pictures.
I am on the road
a refugee
an immigrant
with infinite possibilities ahead
wrapped in a small universe I accept
but with freedom
to search
always moving toward
a home with no limits.
Author’s note: Inspired by Melanie Durand’s memoire, ”Crossing Bayou Teche.” Poem three of my Teche series.
Written 8-22-21
It’s so easy to leave you Print this poem only
It is so easy to leave you
to get lost
in the garbage
fix the sink
watch the cowboys and chiefs
cut the grass, rake the leaves
shop for milk and eggs
exercise my arms and legs
take out the trash
pick up the mail
and a thousand other details.
It’s so easy to leave you
to get lost in the garbage
and before I’m through
we’ve drifted apart
and all I had to do
was sit down and start
to look into your eyes
speak from my heart
listen to you
and hang on your words.
Together take a walk
forget the clock
listen and talk
laugh a bit
maybe even cry
just you and I.
And before long
there we are again
we made it
that’s all we had to do
just be
me and you.
Written 10-5-21
Getting to know you Print this poem only
Isn’t it strange
how in this brief exchange
of the creative impulse
we gain
a certain kind of intimacy
with each other
yet we never
smell each other
shake hands
breathe the same air
put up with personal idiosyncrasies
and off-putting voice inflections –
all the things our friends and loved ones have to.
Yet here we occupy hearts and minds
many of our friends and loves do not know
with such closeness, interiority, and connectedness.
What a strange and magnificent gift!
Author's Note: This poem refers to a poetry community of which I am a part, HelloPoetry.com.
Written 10-9-21
Facing Light Print this poem only
I love to hang out here with you
in this room
where your green bodies
stand up
point to the sky
face the light.
In your soil
my life is renewed
my spirit takes root each day
in your silence
being here a prayer without words.
May I re-learn each morning
to move from my darkness
and face the light with you.
Author’s Note: Each morning I come into what we call our garden room where a multiplicity of plants face outward toward a wall of windows. In this solitude I join my fellow poets on a website in our fertile creating, where we take time to lift our eyes from our sorrows and let our hearts take flight. It is good to be here together [on HelloPoetry.com], each of us sitting down and standing up in our vibrant garden rooms.
Written 10-9-21
Gray Day Print this poem only
I was hoping for sun
to brighten my mood
and wake me up this day.
But shades of gray
hang heavy on the horizon
ground wet from last night’s rain.
That’s life.
I remember my days of black and white
easy answers cut and dry, clear and bright
lines dark and sure
with me of refined mind
up on ground moral and high.
But I have become fond of gray
where friends with their faults
and me with mine stay
in love anyway.
Give me lowly, mushy earth
where seeds break open
with verdant birth.
Yes, please give me a day
with shades of gray.
Written 10-13-21
Brother Bees Print this poem only
In these first days of fall
the trees prepare for their journey into winter
summer’s green
yellowing.
Honeybees buzz the sage
enter its majestic green body
through the sweet portal
of its magenta blossoms
for one last deep drink
of nectar.
My winter approaches
may I imitate my brother bees
maximize what sweetness
there is in my small world
and spark a little life
where I can.
Written 10-21-21
Learning to Drive Print this poem only
She was never that close to her mama
who wished her kids independent
but there was the day mama taught her to drive
out in the field where the only thing to hit
was the single large oak in the middle of the pasture.
The old stick shift was a challenge
requiring all the coordination of legs and arms
the teenager could muster.
Then mama left her alone there to practice
and she was glad being by herself,
the intimacy of learning to drive with mama made her uneasy.
Being sixteen and able to drive
a turning point for her
able now to get away from home
to find boys with her friend gave them a thrill -
adulthood’s first stirrings.
They searched for dance halls
where Cajun musicians played
fiddles, accordions and washboards
and she danced the two-step
and boys showed off their moves.
Her mama gave her a rite of passage
with those driving lessons
cut her loose into a wider world
where she would go to India
have her first baby
and practice loving her children
into their own adulthood.
Author’s Note: Another poem in my Teche Series exploring the writings of my cousin Melanie Durand Grossman, a fellow Louisiana native. Her memoir, Crossing Bayou Teche, reconnects me with the roots of my family and grand oaks with hanging moss, marshes, levees, waters and music teeming with new life.
Written 10-16-21
Young Discovery Print this poem only
I followed her into the field across the street,
our parents inside gossiping,
she sat down in the high dry hay
that was the very first day
of a special innocent discovery
“You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
I can still remember the aroma of that hay.
When I was tramping through a field
thirty years later
I felt strangely excited and alive
I knew not why.
And today I recalled that day
I followed her across the street
to sit in the hay.
Written 10-21-21
A Different Kind of Kingdom Print this poem only
It is an error
to think that I am my work
my paycheck is my worth
bosses are the ones
who define who I am
based on what I’ve done
or the profit I’ve won.
I may not be a prince
or a splendid knight
with shield and sword shining bright
in the moneyed corporate kingdom.
But I can use my eyes to see
tell the pulsing heart of tree
convey the glittery waters of the sea
listen, laugh, and cry with you
hold you when your life seems through
emerge from a hideous mucky dark
still sparkling with a dazzling beguiling
human spark.
Author’s Note: It seems men and women often devalue themselves and their worth because they are retired and are no longer called or sought after, or maybe someone has lost a job, or has a job that pays poorly or devalues them as human beings of worth, or have to take lower-paying jobs when their good jobs have gone overseas or have been replaced by robots. I think we have to start finding our worth in other places and ways that lift and ennoble our spirits.
Written 10-23-21
cloud before waking Print this poem only
the cloud was gathering
and i could tell that it was filling up
getting saturated
with enough grace
to rain on and erode
self-will and hubris
the dark, jagged, and silly monolith
which is ego and pride
so wide in our species.
as the cloud completely filled and spread across the expanse
a feeling of serenity and strength
spread out within me.
after awakening
it occurred to me
that the membrane between imagination and soul
is so thin they burst out on one another
on occasion
and when they do
something marvelous happens.
i think it happens more often
in artists, mystics, seekers, believers,
poets and children.
written 10-30-21
Your Blood on My Head Print this poem only
I kneel at the foot of your cross
me in my sin, fault and weakness,
I who was wandering and lost
in the world’s anger and bleakness.
Allow me my sweet, loving Lord,
to suffer like you did - and still do.
I do not ask from pain to be barred
for it is my honor to suffer with you.
But grant me the power we saw
as you hung there in sorrow and pain -
the power of love - a new kind of law -
that counts loss as gain.
Give us strength of body and soul
to stand under you in your stead
fill the gaps in ourselves and make us whole
so your light and loving power may be spread.
Author's Note: This poem is based on a kind of vision I had. Jesus was human and even though Christ is God the man Jesus suffered greatly and bled from his wounds. The painting to the right is my favorite depiction of the crucifixion even though it does not show the blood in my vision & in reality.
Written 5-11-21
Salvadore Dali painting:
The Narrow Road Print this poem only
I was reluctant to take this road
afraid it would be one way,
scared it would lead to a dead end,
or worse,
a prison from which there was no exit.
But I had come to an end
of the road I was on
and made the decision
to turn onto this tree-lined route.
It was true there were fewer
exits, outlets, and divergences -
good for me who easily got lost
on disjointed paths, and floated in crazy canals.
But off of this new narrow road
were trails I could take -
if I but slowed down -
paths through lush woodlands,
clearings where I could look up
and see the sky and clouds
and breathe fresh air,
a lake of sparkling clear waters
where I could swim and dive as deep as I wanted.
This narrow road was just what I needed
and it has led to great mysteries,
rich stories full of people like me
who sometimes dip into darkness.
This narrow road led to mountains, valleys and flatlands,
difficult challenges
and flights into heights.
I found fellow travelers, sidekicks, and guides
who had taken this road too
and had found the treasures
flowers and miracles along the way.
Still I travel this narrow road
rich with guides, saints
and sinners like me
who have tripped and fell
and gotten up
with a Spirit who gave us stength
to stand and walk
and find the Way
to a Kingdom here and beyond.
Written 11-28-21
Coffee in the Morning Print this poem only
It is cold outside
as winter overtakes fall
the room has a chill
but then sipping my coffee
the rich brown liquid takes hold of me
and the fields of a foreign land
gather in my mouth
I hear the shouts and laughter
of the workers harvesting the beans
I poke my finger into the soil
and Earth fills me with gratitude
for its fruits
and its glorious life.
Ah! Nothing like hot coffee in the morning.
I sigh. I smile. Life is good here now.
Written 11-14-2
The State of Inertia Print this poem only
“Inertia: (physics) the tendency of a body to maintain in its state of rest or uniform motion unless acted upon by an external force, a disposition to remain inactive or inert”
I seem to have a mindless patriotism to this state
as if I must salute its flag
and devote myself to it,
volunteer for service.
Dare I rebel against the state?
Dare I become a traitor?
What if I join the rebel forces of action
join the anarchy of activity?
It is all to easy to stay put
where it is warm and comfortable,
to lay back and just watch.
Oh how I love to watch!
I seem to like being a voyeur.
I don’t believe that.
I still believe there is a spark in me
urging me onward
spurring me to leap into the stream
to grow and learn and become,
to either eat the pie
or step out of its sticky sugary mass.
I choose to rebel
against the state of inertia.
Written 11-16-21
Leap with Me Print this poem only
Maybe if I take the leap of faith
that you will jump into the stream with me
I will enjoy the swim.
Written 11-16-21
In Clouds of Gray Print this poem only
Here I am in clouds of gray
the curtain closing on the day
on the horizon the last light
softly lingers before the night
bright voices of day’s gladness
fade away, my heart veiled in sadness.
The blustery afternoon shook the wings
of elm, its leaves, flying golden things
I hear them sing as they fall
then whisper their farewell call
now in the gloaming of the day
the clouds invite rest or a moment to pray.
Ask surcease of sorrow ahead
but dwell not on shores of dread
believe the voice from inside
in each passing moment abide
let go the chains of control
find a piece of joy in your soul.
Author’s Note: Ahead in coming months are serious invasive treatments for back, shoulder and other issues for someone I love very much. This poem is my attempt to process it all.
Written 11-17-21
Dreaming of Daddy Print this poem only
I am no Freud or native shaman,
experts in dream interpretation,
but the other night I had a dream
of my dear departed daddy.
We were lying on the bed together
and he told me how I had hurt him.
He almost whimpered his disappointment.
This man who was a paragon of strength in my life!
How precious it was to feel his warmth, vulnerability
and humanity in this close encounter.
Even now my eyes grow misty
as I remember the way he was in that dream.
I wonder if in my dreaming
I hugged the Father of the Universe
and felt the frailty of nature
the sadness of it for what we have done to it.
Maybe we need to feel this intimate connection,
this union of our humanness with a powerful love
to grasp the enormity of our responsibility
in this relationship.
Written 11-18-21
Dad and my sister Genie
Three Threads Print this poem only
Two souls wrapped together
in seasons and all kinds of weather
here we are these precious three
you me and one we can’t see.
Making our path, finding our road,
through our hearts a river flowed
a torrent of love and wild romance.
We tripped, but we danced our dance.
Your big brown eyes held my gaze
we talked and tried in a thousand ways
to merge as we fought and sought a third one
we drifted and flew from planet to comet to sun.
Where we were going we did not know
we ran fast at first but now… we walk slow
our speed or height mattered less to us
than building together a bond of trust.
So we’ve yet another adventure ahead.
All those years ago when we wed
we didn’t know the privilege we’d share
from solid earth to now in mid air.
We’ve smelled frangipani and cactus flower
sung sadness and joy and hymns of power.
From three threads together we’ve spun
a beautiful, sturdy cord of one.
Author’s Note: To my beautiful wife, our marriage and journey of love with our higher power, as we embark of another adventure through challenges of health and spirit.
Written 11-21-21
