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.

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?

Night Watch

Here I am playing with iambic pentameter for this little piece. Being a beginner in the poetry genre I thought it couldn’t hurt to try writing like this. It’s not Shakespeare but it is fun working out the phrases.

I love to watch as you slumber at night

the rise and fall of your breasts with each breath

the way your face looks serene and at rest

for in that moment my world is at peace

you are the anchor that holds my heart close

and my love for you reaches into the depths

where I need not fear the darkness of night

nor the ghosts haunting my mortal souls life

Selling Our Souls

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?

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 Good Poet

The poet,

a good poet,

sees the world,

I mean,

really sees the world.

They not only see a sunrise,

they see the colors that dance across the horizon.

The changing shapes of clouds

being blown about the blue sky.

When they write about love,

they touch upon deeply held feelings

giving voice to our deepest desires.

Passionate kisses are felt,

the warmth of another person held close,

losing oneself in the moment

wishing it to last forever.

In the way they use words

that worm their way into a person’s heart.

Poetry becomes the portal,

through which we step into

an unseen world,

uncovering mysteries lying

just outside of our limited sight.