Sad old donkeys

What happens,
when we put our sad old donkeys
out to pasture;
when their short term memory's gone
and they've grown too weak to pull?
What is it that draws us in
and makes us long to touch
these furrytale creatures
no one cares to care for any more?
And what about
those sweet dark eyes,
their vision fading slowly,
makes us hunger for another time
when they -- and we --
were young and strong,
committed to our tasks
and proud of our contributions?
I stroke your long white ears
and cradle your head to my chest,
and feel your youth -- and mine
slipping away.


* * *

Caution

Caution!
Watch your step, my loves --
Now that you're willing
to travel deeper,
you may find the contents of the bins
have shifted in flight;
that there's a lot of movement
here at sea level.
Tread lightly,
watch for low-flying emotions.
Look both ways before you step;
not everyone's on the boat yet --
some late arrivals,
old thoughts from long ago
may show up suddenly,
knock you sideways
if you're not looking.
Here (I heard, as I stood there,
clinging to the railing)
-- hold my hand: I'll be your guide --
and now it's safe: throw caution to the winds!


* * *

Lost in the cacophony

Sometimes I walk into a room
and cannot find you
though I know you're there.
Sometimes I'm walking
in my own brain
and cannot find me there
though I know I'm surely there.
It's a bit like taking pictures
of this mass of seagulls:
I feel and hear a cacophony
and can no longer single out
the voice or face I long to hear or see;
no longer hear your call to me,
or even my own response.


* * *

A reconciliation of opposites

How can the blue
that looks so still
cast such splendid
webs of light
upon this battered hull?
And this hull, in turn,
which burns its dark shape
into the stillness below,
defined by such a luminescent edge --
How can so much light
give off so deep a shadow?
That which is born to move
is tied
and rests in that which is still
and yet we know
that both are born to move...
Is it that tension which creates
the impact of the moment;
the pull against the line,
the wavering of the straight edge --
the reconciliation of opposites?


* * *

Resistance

Resting at the intersection
of what was
and what could be,
why am I so slow
to sink into what IS?
Resistance always seems to be
a determining factor,
a guiding force
that keeps me from letting
the wash of events
seep into my pores
and nourish me.
A life
lived on the surface of now
is always laced
with petty irritations
and worthy projects,
but if I were to sink into the cracks
would I not find
the irritations  worthy,
the projects petty in comparison?


* * *

Get out the kid gloves

My surface is rough today,
as if the unifying plastic
has burned away,
leaving my fibers exposed --
nerve endings, looking fuzzy,
but brittle to the touch --
I find I'm reluctant to even touch,
let alone to lift the latch
and peer into the damage that lies below.
What else has melted in these flames?
What other truths
that were keeping me afloat
have been damaged
in this latest conflagration?
I think I'll take a moment to breathe
before I get out the kid gloves --
this one may still be too hot to touch.


* * *

The heron's iron shadow

Notice: how the heron casts
her iron shadow on my neighbor's lawn;
they've added a sign just to be sure
you know you're at the beach.
It's kitschy here, a little wild --
with dune grass and beach roses,
California poppies and candy tuft,
driftwood and lawn chairs --
the only manicured gardens
belong to mostly empty houses,
attended by strange gardeners
at carefully timed intervals  --
you know those houses:
the ones that wait like fenced puppies
growling at passers by;
tidy, but abandoned and unloved.


* * *