Lights to Guide me Home

It is often night by the time
there is enough of a catch
to bring home.

Once past the high bridge there
are few landmarks by which to navigate
in the dark.

I find my way by lights
in the windows lining the canal,
each one framing a family
I have come to know
by their routines,

almost as well as the one
waiting for me to return.

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Work to be Done

There
is work
to be done.
Despite the cold
I will venture forth
to do what must be done,
shielded by layers of cloth.
At home, there is plenty of wood
and those who wait while the work is done.

At the End of it All

There is a vision which sustains me,
plans made in my mind when the
juggling of life priorities takes its toll.

There is a hope, an intent for the struggle
to facilitate the escape, for the needs
of the present to be sent to the past.

There is a place near running water,
hidden deep in the country, where the strands
connecting life to stress are severed.

There is abundant time in this place,
time to write of walks in the woods,
time to embrace a state of grace.

There is an aspect of bliss in this dream I pursue,
and in the pauses between stress and demands
there is a vision which sustains me.

Ten Days After Delivery

Long
bereft
of the sweet
fragrance of love,
petals wilt and fall,
yesterday’s beauty shed.
The rose may appear forlorn
without its appealing flower,
but the stem stays strong and the thorns sharp.

 

Drinks

It took two days,
but I cleaned out
all the beer.
Tonight, I am thinking
margaritas.
There is enough rum
for Cuba Libras
tomorrow,
and for Mai Tai’s the day
after.

By then it will be a choice
between
red wine and whiskey.
At some point we will need
more booze,
or,
you will realize that you
are the reason
I drink.

 

Fortress

Build up your fortress —
with stone thick,
walls high —
shutter the windows
and seal the doors,
hide yourself within.

Think to hide from wind
and waves and the tumultuous
assault the world will bring.

But know this:
there are also storms
which rage within walls,
and care not
for your defenses.

Aftermath

The thunder is a remote
echo now,
a memory to haunt the ear,
reminders of the impact
of the storm
and the price one pays
for facing its fury.

A figure stalks the washed
out scenes,
exuding a need to find
remnants of a history
in the detritus
falling from the spillways.

A lone street light illuminates
a pool
of lifeless litter.

This is, or Could be, Poetry

Sounds,
smells, fear,
emotions.
A sense of place,
or lack of substance,
feelings of belonging,
difference of opinion.
Whether you found it in the words,
or simply felt a tug at your soul.

.

for Poetic Bloomings form prompt
and Robert’s ‘This is…” prompt

Far From Perfect

You scrutinize the faithful,

attempting to identify
any failing,
isolate every flaw,

expecting a statement
of belief to equal
perfection of character.

A standard even the Savior
does not require.

 

for Three Word Wednesday

Sunlight With No Heat

The morning sun banishes
frost from the lawn,
decorating the grass with bands
of fallen stars.
More than light is required
to worry the ice covering
shadowed puddles,
or to loosen the coats
of those who walk
past my window.
Steam from the soup
fogs my glasses
long before I feel the warmth.