Two girls

two girls

Two girls.

Two girls who look like dogs.

Sitting on the other side of the glass door

Staring

With expressions that may be yearning

Or, perhaps, may simply be stares.

They come in when I open the door,

One heading straight for the water dish

And the other to the easy chair next to mine,

To curl up, place her chin on the arm

And slowly ease back into sleep.

Do their chests fill with love, as mine does,

When we share a room together,

Or are they just waiting for me to feed them?

We feed each other what we need.

That works for me.

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Uncle Warren’s Attic: Wanting to Live Forever

planning the week

I wrote this song 33 1/3 years ago – two chords and a phrase – on a morning when I felt just the way it says – and writing the first verses opened up the final answers that flowed out in the climax.

It did not take long to write. That day I fully understood the concept that songs, poems, stories, are all just out there waiting to be discovered, waiting for someone willing to be a vessel for the words and music, because I don’t know another explanation for how this song got written. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and at the same time it expressed something deep inside me. Continue reading “Uncle Warren’s Attic: Wanting to Live Forever”

Love anyway

love anyway

When weariness overtakes you

And your fuse is short,

Love anyway.

When the slap of reality hurts

So bad you want to lash back,

Love anyway.

When the loss is so deep

You can’t see straight,

Love anyway.

When you’re tempted to quit

And go running away forever,

Love anyway.

That’s what love is;

That’s why it’s called love.

No one is guaranteed a sunset

Life is about enduring to the sunset,
attempting to thrive until the sunset –
because the night is dark
and you’ll need light, and food, and shelter
to make it to the sunrise.

No one is guaranteed a sunset.
But probably, you’ll be there when the sun goes down.
Your days are probably numbered in the tens of thousands.
So make this day worthwhile
so you can rest tonight and think,
“That was a good day,”
so a week from now you can rest and think,
“That was a good week,”
And “That was a good month,”
And “That was a good year.”
All in all, it’s a good life.

Grass (Carl Sandburg, 1918)

4a965-willowfirstday2

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.

Shovel them under and let me work—

                                             I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg

And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.

Shovel them under and let me work.

Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:

                                         What place is this?

                                         Where are we now?

 

                                          I am the grass.

                                          Let me work.

The roar down below

once-upon-a-midnight

The wind roars up from the bottom of the hill behind our house

– or is that the bay shouting out its lungs?

water crashing into white caps of fury, or

a beast roaring at the heart of the world,

bouncing off itself joyfully to scream “Life! Live! Love!”

Be angry or be alive.

Laugh or cry.

The choices present themselves every day.

Choose life.

Choose joy.

It’s lighter on the soul.

Prose poem: Independence Day

dejah in clover

The hound ran.

She ran because she was happy to be free, beyond the fence, beyond the limits.

She ran across the field through the clover, through the tall grass waving as she brushed by, her mouth open in what looked like a delighted smile, happy just to be alive and exploring and seeing what is out there beyond the fence, beyond the limits.

She ran like she did when she was a puppy in this field, a bounce in her step that wasn’t there behind the fence. The enclosed yard did not contain quite enough space for her to unleash her full speed, her full joy, the fullness of her being and potential.

The fence kept her safe, no doubt – from predators and from getting lost in the woods beyond the field. But beyond the fence lay freedom and joy and all the speed she could muster.

There were fewer limits there, and there she could be all the dog she was.