What Tale do I Tell?

What tale am I to tell? 

Where does my story begin?

Where will it all end?

I look about and see poetry

in the trees as the wind blows through the leaves

in the songs of the birds nesting in the branches.

There is poetry in the love I share

in the tears I shed

in my own imperfections.

I look up at the clouds scudding across the sky

changing shape molded by unseen hands

creating a story that is timeless.

I am such a small part of the greater whole

seeking to discover that one great purpose

writing these bits and pieces of poetry

hoping to see in the words a reflection of my soul.

Perfection is a dream, a fantasy of youth

these words are imperfect as is the language.

It can never describe those deeper feelings

that lie at the core of my being,

a being fraught with fear and anxiety

of knowing I am not enough on my own.

What tale do I tell? 

What mystery lies at the root of my heart?

The roads I have travelled were never straight

winding through a landscape at once beautiful and terrible.

Through the gauntlet of people and places

faces haunting the edges of my memory

now I stand on the precipice of the future

as I stare out across a valley shrouded in fog

wondering where my story will take me.

Time grows shorter with each passing year

I now have arrived at a point where there are less tomorrow’s

and I can no longer sit idly 

as that enemy time, 

gnaws me down into dust.

All is sacred, all is holy, if I dare to look outward

fear is the cage created to justify our own failures

and I have failed and fallen so may times

yet, like the Phoenix I have risen from the ashes

to stand before the judgement seat of the Holy

the mystery of unconditional love

that calls us out of our tombs

unbinding our tortured souls

and bathing us in the light of truth.

The Child That Never Was

I could see it in her eyes

the memory of that day

as she lay in bed waiting

a doctor,

a nurse

she knew it wasn’t good.

The child died

it was that simple

the life carried within

was no longer.

She yearned to touch

to hold, to see

that which she had felt

all those months

even now

her arms ache to hold

that child she never saw.

The years go on

time does not always heal,

the small casket buried

holding her heart.

Rehab Visit

March winds blow cold,

dirty snowbanks along the road

more ice than snow,

as I walk into the rehab

entering into that shadow world

that place between life and death.

A row of occupied wheelchairs

greets me as I walk the halls

wondering why they are all women,

staring at me as I walk by

some with a yearning look

others showing no emotion

their heads bent down, eyes closed

as if they have already surrendered

looking into the depths of their tomb,

I shudder walking by these living dead

then I walk into his room

the old man who smiles a toothless smile

who still lives into the moment

teaching all that life is to be lived,

that love never truly dies

even as the sun begins to set.

In this little corner the sun shines

and he is grateful for the little he has

as I sit and listen to his stories

praying silently that I have his courage

when I will one day be sitting in his seat

ready to face the dark with dignity and grace.

Sunday Evening Call

I make my Sunday evening call

to my mother,

being the dutiful son

and each week we talk

about the same thing,

how time goes by

not just goes by

but flys

in the blink of an eye.

She reminisces about dad

now ten years gone

about a marriage 

that would have been diamond

had he not left our world

but now all she has are memories

as she stares down her waning years

so I just listen to her

talk about dad and her,

about missing her great-grandkids

wishing we could live closer,

and as she rambles on

I wonder how I will be

when I reach that age

wondering the same,

as time flys by

leaving me only with memories

fading in the evening light.

Writing from the Heart

The sky shimmers

masking the shadow

that lies on the heart.

The earth feels solid

as I walk along the path

yet, a chasm opens

seeking to draw me down

into the depths.

It seems so long ago

that I took that step

to discover myself

as I began to write

began to explore deeply

those feelings 

that lie just below the crust

breaking out in midnight tears

wraiths weaving their threads

entwining themselves 

in and through my life.

Each day I use words

discovering hidden myths

as I scrape the surface

ever searching for truth

buried under layers of life

where lies and deceit take root

choking out the dream.

I know I’m not as clever

in the words that I use,

and there are moments

when I can’t write what I see.

But age and nature conspire

and I have only a short time

to put out into poorly written verses

that which lies heavy on the heart.

To write is to be free

to envision paradise reborn

in the moments of my life.

On the Edge of Tomorrow

Time flies by, so they say. 

One moment your a child 

nervously entering a new school, 

then your an adolescent 

negotiating the pitfalls of puberty

as you seek to discover 

your way in the world, 

then comes those early years of adultness, 

figuring out what path to take, 

to your dream destination. 

Then you find out that life is not ride at DisneyWorld 

the Fairy Godmother is not real 

the Princess or Prince is really a frog, 

a poisonous one at that, 

but if you’re true to yourself, 

persevere through the storms 

then maybe, 

in the shifting seas 

you find that one person 

who will hold on to you no matter what. 

That one true love

that you reach out for in the dark

when you’re scared and tired

knowing they will be there.

Then comes the moment that you pause,

like an explorer, stopping to survey the landscape

looking back at where you’ve been,

then looking out onto the fog shrouded mountains,

you know you cannot go back

and so placing one foot in front of the other

you take a deep breath and step boldly out

trusting in the love and faith you have.