Mired In Me

What good does it do

to be mired in me? Quicksand

and sticky goo, that, pulling

and making futile all movement

until, too late, the hopelessness

dawns and the only thing I can

see is that any solution has

absolutely nothing to do with me.

Eating on a Marshmallow

Seats at a restaurant. They felt like marshmallows.

Twice today I was reduced to tears for someone in dire need.

Maybe it isn't all about food.

Forgiveness - tough concept to follow through on. 

Relationships are definitely more important than food.

Laughing is good. Really good.

So is ice cream.

I love maps.

Hero

Holding the trash can for stability,

he hung his head.

Wanted to cry,

but wouldn't.

Flew successful missions over 

England in 44. Now he 

couldn't stand long enough

to mow. How long since he

could? Didn't know.

His friend mowed the grass

for him, the smell so

pungent it was almost a taste.

He'd finish in the dark

load the mower in his truck

take off with a handshake

and a smile.

He was the hero now. Easing

himself to the brick planter

to sit, he smiled.

Without You

without you
i am little more 
than lonely
at best

without you
my joy shrivels 
dry crackling
leaves of ivy 
in a pot
neglected

without you
i trudge 
dragging
discouraged

now i see
though i've known
all along 
i am incomplete
without you

What Must I Do?

What must I do

in the scheme of things,

to satisfy my hopes

and the dream of things?

Stories yet untold,

slowly unfold - 

like the web-like

crisscross of an old 

paper map - 

taking me and my dreams

and my hopes on adventures

far more bold

far more discernible

than what is real.

Your Return

Joy
radiates
once 
again.

A Song

Managing stress is easier 

with a song, a hope 

and a smile.

I tried it the other way -

and I found that of the 

two roads diverging,

the one bright and cheery

trumped the ill-tempered 

victim's road.

"Whoa is me," isn't half 

the refrain of "Let me

make you smile."

How fun to see you 

laugh! Contagious,

of course. Twice the fun

of bemoaning my poor 

condition. And perhaps,

just perhaps, it all began

because of a silly little song

in the blinding 5:00 AM light 

of the kitchen. Hummed, sung

under my breath. 

It made all the difference.