Are we really that far gone?
In this time and place
the darkness of a human
overshadows the light
and covers us in shame.
Many despair this darkness
as they try to make sense
of the trite words being tossed
at the expense of another soul.
You shall love God and neighbor
unless that neighbor is different
and then you look to denigrate
while the crowds cheer raising their thumbs
feeling vindicated without knowing
they have sold their own souls
for the price of thirty pieces.
Where does poetry come from?
Is it birthed in tragedy,
when a heart is broken
and fear darkens a life?
Is it created, when love is found
in that first kiss under the oak tree?
Does poetry only belong to the young
who see colors dance along the mind.
Or, does poetry come from a life full of mystery
where even the smallest grain of sand
is seen as an invitation into stillness.
I am old now seeking to find my poets heart
in the quiet moments of the day.
I listen for that young voice
crying out in my dreams and imagination
seeking words and images
long lost in the whirlwinds of the past.
the sun yet to rise
memories my companion
the air is warm
although it’s November
trees once colorful
are now being denuded
as leaves are torn away
the winds of the storm
tearing though branches
and I think about those times
when the winds tore through my life
tearing the certainties I had
what I thought were rocks
turned out to be sand
and faith is challenged
the Psalmist cries;
How long, O’ Lord, How Long?
as I watch the children play
jumping in piles of dead leaves
the irony of life not lost on me
life jumping in the midst of death
continuing on thumbing its nose
at the hooded figure
that points to the grave.