Category Archives: Gratitude

History will tell

Who is your favorite historical figure?

Too many people to admire or
Fear or laud if history is a guide.
Amelia Earhart took to the air,
Oh my. Flying, it's so tempting.
And a pilot is such an enviable
Person. Then, too, she was an
Accomplished woman. Freud,
He wrote a blueprint for living
And set a practice by which to
Define the intricacies of all our
Minds. Was he obsessed with
Pardon the expression s-e-x? If
Yes, his prose proved the most 
Beautiful expression of how we
Grow and emerge as humans.
More contemporaneous people
Whose reputation I can covet
Include Mother Teresa? No, I 
Have no wish at sainthood so
Even Joan of Arc is safe from
My desires. Joan Rivers? Yes,
Maybe. If so, because laughter
Was her gift to a world in tears.

Light/Dark

Here I stand, trying to capture the
Essence of a sky so nuanced that
It eludes words. Its portrait won't 
Stand still for my machinations or
The manipulations of the light. I do
See more than my lens or a pencil
Can impart. I claim it all as my own
It is my view after all, but I miss the
Point, lose track of the essential as
I ponder the details and minutiae
This is the close-up I need to capture
If I want to stay true to the vision I see
From all the characteristics of beauty I 
Can only lay witness to some and gape
As the sky unfolds before me light and
Dark. It is my view after all but I miss
The point, lose track of the essential.
The essence is the mystery of night
Falling. I looked up at this one moment.
This is the close-up I need to capture

1. My Mark

Withdrawn

I trust my vision to 
Others, that's why
I hit publish so fast.
Unsure if what I say
Will land or stand.
Sharing it with you
Is all I can do. I feel
Like Florence Foster
Jenkins, promoting 
My shakiest high 
Notes. Sending my
Thoughts, my poems
To the ether of the
Internet is my social 
Act, making my mark,
Making it -whatever
It may be- sing or fly
Poem 2 Cloud Cover

My head is up in
The clouds as I
Have so often told
You, that collective
You to whom I write
For whom I write.
The clouds are my
Magic carpet, my 
Highway to heaven.
A route so ephemeral 
I fear to tread on its
Soft shoulders and
Wonder where they
Will take me just as
I wonder where they
Have gone as they 
Float by and away.

	


	







	

		
3. Profound/Ordinary
	


	
	

		

Submitted. Withdrawn





I have been prolific,
Writing poems of
Maturity, of aging,
Poetry of memory,
Poems of mortality.
I have loved on paper
As in life. Wanted and
Longed. Remembered.
I have written it all
Down, to share with
You. My poems tell
Stories, paint scenes,
Sometimes profound,
Most often mundane.
That is what a life is.
That is how ours goes,
From heights of drama
To the ordinary, the 
Beautiful. The every day.

	


	





	

		
4. Few Words
	


	
	

		

Submission withdrawn





This is my bid for immortality. 
Leaving behind a few words.
Savoring life in poems, writing
It all down. Ideas writ large or
More often small in just so many
Words. They spill out over all
Life's many topics. There's 
Love, of course, and what you
Chose for dinner. My awe can
Overwhelm my poetry. Fear is
In there too; fear of losses,  big
More often tiny or petty. They
All matter. To me, to you. To us.

	


	





	

		
Dreams
	


	
	

		

Day or night, some of us are
Dreamers or sceamers, some
Plan some plot. Daydreams 
Are the hopeful kind, the ones
Full of wishes and whims, of
Things we want and maybe
Don't know. Desires hidden a
Bit deeper than fears, those 
Come out in the darkness. We
Call them nightmares, in honor
Of a medieval evil spirit, said 
To smother sleepers. Dream
In the daylight and let your 
Sunshine shine in, dodge the
Malevolent "mare." Be ye of
Good cheer. Dream well and
In peace, in good company.
Day dreams are the hopeful
Kind, where desires are met

	


	









	

		
May
	


	
	

		

April was "the cruelest month"
T. S. Eliot had his sway, being
Right only goes so far and now
May comes in teasing, blowing 
Hot and cold like a lady in waiting
Flowers, famously made hers
By the showers of anticipation
From the clouds of the month
Before sit unsure of themselves
In beds strewn around tree trunks
Cast too early for their colorful
Debuts, appearing papery and 
Transparent in the iffy sunshine
Of overcast May days, seeking
Succor from the chill winds, not
Quite secure in their nesting 
Places. Chaucer spoke of the
Renewal that is spring. I say it's 
A process and a time of year.