Choices, choices

I could choose to leave this image
pale and small because the flower is.
I could keep playing with the color
and never publish, or then claim
my software isn't working right.
I could say I'll get around to it
after I've cleaned the house
(knowing I never will).
My intentions might be good,
but I'll might just forget it --
or perhaps I'll toss it altogether
because someone may not like it,
and I can't deal with criticism.
I could make people tell me it's gorgeous,
and then publish, blaming them,
or reject it because I just never seem
to get flowers right.
Instead, I choose to share it here and now,
with you.


* * *

The flash of creativity

A flash of wing,
what is that song,
unheard of in the air?
A chirping cry, and I look up
to see three tiny beaks,
open and crying
with anticipation:
feed me!
Feed me!
Feed my soul!
Wings stir the air;
something has gone in search of food
and will return
with nuggets of wonder
as a mother cares for her children;
heart leaps with smiles of expectation.


* * *

Prayer as scaffolding

Counting my blessings
I can't help but see
I'm riding pretty high in the water,
getting a little rusty;
got some holes
that need some plugging--
or does that only mean
I'm holy?
Never mind: When I check in,
The scaffolding's here,
already in place,
and as it stands
the numbers will grow bright again,
the anxiety levels are bound to drop,
and I'll be ready to set sail soon
on whatever adventure lies in store for me.


* * *

A bright white streaming

As the day cools, and evening
hangs its wash of peachy orange
on the darkening water and the sky,
I watch the boats
stand guard over the waves,
rolling with the ebb and flow of tide
and just for one brief moment
catch sight of this --
a bright white streaming,
all colors coming together to carve
a path across the sea from me to you --
or is that from you to me?
And even as I wonder,
light fades, and the colors separate again,
preparing for their nightly merge
into darkness.


* * *

Self-portrait

Something about the light --
the way she glows --
offsets her general air
of age and disrepair;
of decrepitude,
of shabbiness
that never paired with chic,
and so,
though her bones are brittle
and her skin mottled
I somehow find her beautiful
and, after stopping to stare,
I remove my lens cap,
point,
and shoot.

Oh,
and yes,
I liked this cabin,
too...

Resting in the stillness

I'm stopping here,
by the side of the road;
turning my engine off
and resting in the moment --
treating my ears
to the lap of the waves
and the chirp of the chickadee;
treating my eyes
to the gentle fade of fog
and the soft greens of early summer;
treating my nose to the fresh salt air
and my cheeks to the brush
of a cool damp breeze,
and -- best of all --
allowing my heart and brain to sit quietly,
breathing in the stillness of the moment.


* * *

Tunnel vision

I hate it,
when my peripheral vision is cut off;
when all I can see
is the tunnel ahead,
not even the light at the end;
when someone else dares to stop me
from doing things
I know I shouldn't do
even though I understand
it's probably best for me.

At times like this
the world gets very small
and everything is me, me, me;
I can't escape
this constant awareness
of my own inherent flaws.
Truth be told --
this seasonal itch
is a bitch.


* * *