Age is a foreign land I can’t get used to. I want to go back home.
Personal Journal
Waking to a newer than new day
Each morning begins with the triumph and celebration of waking to a new day and the blessing of being able to get out of bed. What better way to start the day than with a success like that?
Dear Yesterday
Dear Yesterday,
You begged to talk with me
but I am too busy with Today —
maybe we can catch up later —
if Tomorrow doesn’t treat me well
I will call to cry on your shoulder.
Serenity & grace
when I fall into old age
let it be not a drunkenly
face-first tumble but rather
an autumn leaf gracefully
drifting from the tree —
or if we ascend into our
older years please let me
soar and not be flung
Plexus
we feel poetry and art
in the sensitive veins
that run through soul and
carry not blood but spirit
№ Panic
Breathe in so much gratitude that there’s no room for fear.
Winter’ish
In Phoenix, Jack Frost doesn’t nip — he just tickles.
Seasonal wisdom
learn from leaves
green is go —
yellow & red
slow down, stop
take time to rest
Sudden silence
The death of a loved one is a sudden silence — one of those deafening silences that leaves ringing in
Dark thoughts
how the nighttime looks
during a power outage
is how night should look
Delusions & cliffs
paths of long-term security
dead-end without notice
in the mercurial maze of life
Flight path
I look out my office window
working too late, again
The half-moon is round
with a glowing halo —
I know it’s pollution but
my heart sees fairy dust
or the happily ever after
romance of a bedtime story
And next to the bright moon
with its fringe of murky light
soars a large airplane
with its lights flashing
and I can hear its engine
even with my windows closed
(it’s hot outside, otherwise —
you know darn well —
I would open them!)
The plane’s lights —
red, green, white orbs
of unsightly technological safety —
are ruining the beautiful night sky
and distracting me from
my dusty fairy-tale moon
Yet maybe
at last
I realize
what’s been
obscuring
my poetic vision
I always seem to focus
on that beautiful moon
and the romantic dark sky
but ignore the 737 monstrous
hunk of metallic civilization
hurling itself through the night,
followed by a second aircraft
and then a third and fourth,
as if the airport is shooing
all her noisy little children
out of the house to play —
And even though that airplane
is hideous and loud
and aerial anti-serenity —
it’s life.
And what is poetry —
if not life?
Perhaps it carries
newlywed lovers
who were finally married
after COVID cancellations,
leaving on the honeymoon
they saved up years for —
and in that plane
is just as much fairy tale
as that beautiful-ugly
dust veiling the moon.
A final breath in winter
Dying ain’t pretty. Death is beautiful.