Check the Box

Too many check boxes 

without quality control 

makes for a 

head-down,

don't look around,

focused 

existence.

That ain't livin'.

The tension 

between 

too many

and 

too few 

is where I live

too often.

I'm not alone.

The Wall

Hidden in the crevices of a wall,
in small cracks, are small wishes
written in ink and pencil,
carrying small hopes,
prayers, dreams.

The rock wall crumbles
to the sound of the river
behind it. Slow, gentle.

Sometimes the small papers
blow with an afternoon breeze,
freed from the aging mortar and
like dragonflies, chart a course

greater than being stuck
in the rocks of a monument.

Rain pounds the wall,
thundering on the river behind it.
Rivulets of water carry waterlogged
runny hopes like discarded gum
wrappers down to the ignominy
of the mud below.

Of Course

Of course

it is not easy

to force writing.

And so I do

with a smile

and good intention.

Wishing 

for little more

than completion.

The end of 

thirty joyful days 

that should be a hundred.

Or five hundred

purposeful moments

that reflect a day, my hopes.

And fears, and wishes

and reflections of what was

and what might be tomorrow.

Unnerved

I'm astonished at 

the thoughts of a favorite writer

and the challenge to write a poem

per day for 30 days.

I thrill with the possibilities of

building an audience 

to one day read

and enjoy

what I

write.

An ER visit unnerves me.

I share some lines from

that above favorite, which 

may lead to that above audience.

Which has nothing to do with the ER

visit, but that still unsettles me.

Because life is fragile.

Like good lines and a willing audience,

it doesn't just show up without

some baggage.