Bell ringers, well-wishers. 
Silent nights 
Holy nights 
bright lights, red green and white. 

Time to reflect,
on our level of giving,
our level of a sharing. 

Time to count the flakes of goodwill.
Are they flurries or snow showers?

Time to see if the weather of our generosity and kindness
are small wisps of dry snow, 
that swirl like tiny cyclones hurriedly by
along the cold callous concrete. 

Or are they generous deeds, 
laden with kind words
that stretch out like thick blankets of snow
that protect the seeds in need that lie below. 

There to protect the tender things that lie beneath,
the things not always seen.
The things that need to flower, 
if spring is kind,
if we are kind, 
and both arrive in time,
to help the blossoms bloom. 

This poem is not about me, it was written for someone who wanted a poem about infidelity.

I trapped a cocoon in a jar.
I pretended not to know 
that what would hatch
and one day roam. 

With wings extended it raced 
with the rhythm of an anxious heart, 
It flew in search of something new. 
It found a garden flower,
and danced on every petal.  

Faithless creature of infidelity
It sought the nectar of another.  

The thirst was not content,
It moved on and sought another. 

Once the thirst for new was done—
Its home to nestle in my arms. 

Remorseless little creature,  
How long will I succumb to charms? 

 

When I am laid to rest—
            Where I go doesn’t matter.

It’s where I’ve been—that kept me up.
            Will I be remembered at my passing?  

Did I give meaning to life?
Did I create laughter?  

Did the fragrance of flowers fill my senses—
and not just the room of mourning? 

Did the hurts I caused—
find healing?   

 Did I hear the answers to these questions—
            Or was it late. 

 Will someone ask—why? 
             will they know—
                        what my answer might have been?  

Were my eyes—
              filled with wonderment?
Will they know life’s quota—
               was less than I desired?
                         That life was insufficient—
                                    to quench my thirst.  

 If not—the fault was mine.  

 In the end—
               it needs to be known,
I did not wish to go!
               I only longed to stay! 

 Do not be saddened—
               It’s a testament to you—
                          that I wished to stay. 

 

Like A River

The river of life flows my way.
I am filled with its waters as I pay the rent,
give the kids their allowance,
maybe next month a log jam will come my way
and I won’t feel so lucky or grateful.

Life’s that way.

But today I breathe,
I laugh the laughter of a child’s glee as I play tug of war with my dog
and I sing the Robin’s song of spring when the rays of sun remind me of better days ahead.

Then, like a stopped river, my neighbor Bruce gets a death sentence from his doctor,
pancreatic cancer.
Who would think
such a small organ,
cloistered deep within the body
would have the power to summon death so quickly.

Hospice on the way.

He counts the days of his life,
treasures what remains.
And I remember, I should look at life that way. Sing its praises
that-away, every day, come what may.
Still, I pause and feel the guilt of my gratitude that it isn’t me.
So grateful God that it isn’t me who must say goodbye so soon
with so many moments left to treasure,
to no longer feel a warm embrace or have a sweet kiss rest upon my lips.
I am not ready, to have the joys of my life ended, ended, ended, so soon.

I Pine

I know the craziness will pass,
and that it’s all just a moment in time
and all I need do is bide my time inside.

Yet, I pine for the feel of soil under my feet,
between my fingers and under my nails,
and I wash my hands,
not because I fear Covid,
the microbial menace I cannot see
until it is too late,
because I do.

I long for the isolation of my little garden
but not the separation from my friends.

In my garden, social distance doesn’t matter
unless it is to give a wide birth
to a friendly bee
who I envy the way it spends its time
caressing the stigma and pistils of blossoms
soon to be fruit.

I pine for a warm embrace
as I video chat with my children
and am one sad story away from a river of tears
as I worry if we will be the next tale of grief.

My son, in a mask, does a doorway visit
to drop off masks he has crafted for our use

He says,
“Use them so others feel safe when you and mom need to shop”.
We are the Tuesday morning shoppers between seven and eight,
the time allotted for the elderly to shop,
a sign of the times.
Wishing it would all go away,
and once again I can pat my neighbor on the back
or sit across from friends and chat.