To Parker J. Palmer

You are an elder

or so I’ve read

a sage

filled with wisdom

for the age

a voice of reason

in unreasonable times

I read your books

and wonder

if I will ever achieve

that place of honor

of being an elder

filled with wisdom

whose words

are quoted

by the likes of ones

like me

who strive to write

with the same passion

and depth

or will I fade

into the twilight

a mere shadow

of who I once was

whose words are dust

that blow away

in an autumn breeze

never to return

lost forever to time.

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Words

Words drip

one by one

filtered

through gauze

a hazy weave

that strains

each word

that drips through

removing impurities

of my own thoughts

breaking down

into small pieces

each another word

born from more

creating

a new word

joining in

the long conversation

between self

and the soul.

The Note

She taped the envelope to the door

and then slowly walked away,

the years of regret and pain

had finally come to this moment.

The note was short and to the point,

the only way she knew

how to express her deepest feelings.

Her fear that he would one day explode.

as she touched the bruise on her cheek

still sore even after so many days,

yet, her heart bore a deeper bruise

the bruise of a betrayal of her love.

The years she gave to him

the children she bore,

the house she kept

now she took that note

sealed in the envelope

taping it to the one place he was sure to see it

and as she slowly walked away

out of the front door and down the path

she mused on what he might do

as she entered the taxi taking her away

back to her own true love

Measure of My Life

What is the measure of one’s life?

In the still moments where alone I sit

writing out the words that play

along the horizon of my mind

darting to and fro

seemingly solid at once

then becoming ghosts the next

whispers that speak in the dark

that have no meaning

as I try to grasp what to do

my writing is weak

my poetry is nonsense

but the words taunt

they jump about,

just out of reach

the feelings are raw

how do I measure my life,

by what I do,

or what I don’t do?

Is it worth the effort

or the critique of a thousand voices

that all yell and scream.

Life is measured in the seconds and minutes

in the hours of the day

in the seasons as they change

in watching the summer fade

and falls colors drop away

as winter winds blow them around

down empty streets

where lovers clasp each other tightly

holding themselves against the cold

of their own feelings and doubts.

What is the measure of my own life?

What will I leave behind to be read

and thought about?

Seattle, 1971

I can get you to Canada,

she said,

as I waited for my plane.

Just take this card,

call the number,

and you will be free,

her blue eyes bright.

I looked at her wondering

if this could be true,

freedom from the pain

of all that I knew.

I held her gaze,

for just a moment

she smelled of fresh flowers

on a warm spring day

a memory I carry to this day.

I thought about her offer,

then said, No,

I’ve done my time

and now I’m headed home.

She turned away from me,

and walked to another gate.

Was she sad I wondered,

as she disappeared

melting into the crowd

Release

Let it go

it is all past

there is nothing to be done

you can’t change anything

the future is unknown

nothing to be done

it will happen

you can’t worry

fate is inexorable

a twisted vine

the past, present, future

intertwine

we carry all three

in our hearts

a part of the whole

what happened made you

what will happen will grow you