Rooftop Coffee

September 16

ROOFTOP COFFEE

Who is more powerless: the person driving down the road with his cup of coffee on the roof of the car, or the one who sees it happen?  Lost in mental chaos, lost to the small things, I set the cup and forget, or content and serene, I am examining details and notice the oddness.  When my mind wanders I am helpless in the whirlpool and suction.  When I am grounded I am struck by the separate sealedness of the carnival around me.  Potential rides on the top; will it fall forward or back?  Will there be a sticky haze on the front windshield or the rear?  Or I could remember at the stoplight and spare myself everything but the embarrassment.  As the observer I try to be helpful, I point and jump and shout, calling the predicament to the attention of others in an attempt to increase my chances of success.  We all stand as the coffee speeds away to unknown disaster.

Wear your boldness like a mane.

*

Hand Washing

I live a simple life now;

I handle life as it is dished up.

I no longer need to make use of the dish prison.

Living an orderly active life I find it untenable

to have my favorite spoon or bowl held hostage

until I make enough mess to run the dishwasher through.

I don’t live an ‘Eight is Enough’ type existence

and need not burden my psyche

trying to save my hands a little soap.

I save the Cascade for visits to waterfalls,

Jet Dry for landing strips.

Precious Cargo

November 30

Precious Cargo

Do I carry myself as well as I could? Do I understand the value of what is contained within me? This journey matters, it requires my attention and comprehension, if only I am able. When I fall short the road changes. The distance I go has much to do with how well and whether I acknowledge the nature of the cargo with which I am imbedded.

If you have to put your foot down; open your fist

*

WHAT IS MINE

The cloud of snow slept in the tree overnight
And poured from the branches with the morning breezes.
Showers of crystal, drop from a clear daylight sky
As a telltale of intentions delayed.

What was meant for moon time
Has been kept till sunshine
A treat for bright eyes and young hearts.
How can I weep over altered destinations?

Arrivals and departures are truly the province
Of poetry and postcards
Not a thing for worry or fretting.

Putty is for forming into an image of my desire not the worlds.
Time is a liquid substance I cannot decant at will.
Shoulds and aughts are parlor games for the bored and senseless.

If I waste my life playing a game I can’t win
I will fail to see what I can’t lose.

More than Less

February 5

More Than Less

There is a difference between doing G-d’s will and winning, though some times they look the same. Skin deep appearance or monetary prowess share no border with the will of G-d, but these can stack as transparencies seeming invisible to the uninitiated practitioner. The organs exist and blood flows in the living thing and the shell is hard, lifeless; though it glints. Success can be the mantel of right compliance or the shroud of something deadly. I mustn’t be pushed or pulled by the desire of accolades or acceptance, nor shall I flee into a trap for fear of ridicule or rejection. The lacerations of emotional infliction, unloving judgments and imprudent fallout cause me to flinch in the face of changing focus and relinquishing hope of control. I am powerless over everything and responsible to everything. Anything else is incidental and with loving help will work out if I do not panic. Ah, to love myself as G-d loves me.

Control is an illusion I perpetrate on myself

*

THE THRONG

The more people I meet, the more vehemently I do not believe in God.
The tidal wave of human ignorance hits me
And the sheer and repetitive force of it
Is more than my single souled craft can bear.

Cyclical, coincidental tragedy, coupled with purposeful meanness
Barbed with arrogance and misaligned fear
Hold my child's faith under a scalding bath of realism
What to do, I do not know.

The fragility and perniciousness of life war with each other,
Though loss wins out.
What can I use to keep myself from withdrawal
To despondent hibernation?

Looking for glimmers of goodness in the sea of overwhelming depravity
Is not cutting it with me.
Mystery as an explanation
Is not working either.

I am not a retarded five year old.
I am a despairing thirty-eight year old
And I am tired of game playing and coyness.
I want God to arrive, not with explanations, but solutions.

I am not looking for a punishing parent
To send errand persons to bed without supper.
I am looking for the equation of repair,
The dance steps to healing.

I am yearning for global twelve step,
A universal attunement
And galactic spiritual awakening
And by the way, I want it now

Roof Top Coffee

September 16

ROOFTOP COFFEE



Who is more powerless: the person driving down the road with his cup of coffee on the roof of the car, or the one who sees it happen? Lost in mental chaos, lost to the small things, I set the cup and forget, or content and serene, I am examining details and notice the oddness. When my mind wanders I am helpless in the whirlpool and suction. When I am grounded I am struck by the separate sealedness of the carnival around me. Potential rides on the top; will it fall forward or back? Will there be a sticky haze on the front windshield or the rear? Or I could remember at the stoplight and spare myself everything but the embarrassment. As the observer I try to be helpful, I point and jump and shout, calling the predicament to the attention of others in an attempt to increase my chances of success. We all stand as the coffee speeds away to unknown disaster.


Wear your boldness like a mane.