An old soul at seven
he expresses wisdom
without reservation
in poetry of thought.

He moves with frantic
energy, until he settles
into remarkable
moments of reflection.

On a timeless beach,
on sand as fine as
sugar and cinnamon
he contemplates value.

He see’s himself in
this timelessness, as well as,
the fragility of life, and
the randomness of chance.

A handful of sand he lets
pass through his fingers
saying, mom this is my 
heart if I didn’t have you.

Then with another handful
he says, as he holds it firm,
this is my heart, now 
whole again.

for Carson Michael Flynn

Are metaphors for connection
and yet they always seem too far
and once crossed, it is often
their fate to be burned,

We value wins, but not win-win,
for it is in our nature, like small
children, to see the world as win-lose
which invariably is lose-lose.

A bridge to our destruction
is the one built across the river
of lies, a river of constant turmoil
that we see as something to conquer.

A bridge of connection is built across
a river of understanding and compassion.
Such a bridge can last forever
in spirit of love and enterprise.

Legacies are built when bridges
end fear and misunderstanding
because we let ourselves
live beyond our selfishness.

When we let empathy in  and
worship reason, and see ourselves
in all those others, then we can become
master bridge builders.

There are times when I wander,
not in the sense of pacing,
although I do find pacing helps
to satiate a  bias for action.

I wander along streams of life
consciousness, of opposites
and art, where there is no sun
without shade.

Where there’s no rainbow
without rain, and where this
bird of hope flutters in the
belly of artistic thought.

Giving birth to interconnected
life thoughts in the wistfullness
of words, which may be a
guidepost to something new.

But for it to be new, there must be
something old, or yet unfound
which permits life streams
to merge into this moment.

And despite all odds, and all
of life chances and the tumble
of the dice of world randomness
we are here living in these moments

that we are just wandering through!

Hope 

Hope is life blossoming,
it is the world beyond the window
alive in exploding vibrant colors
and it is on aspiring lips of youth
and in the heart which beats fast
with the kiss offered in love’s hope
and in all dreams well dreamt. 

Inspiration

Between blind hope
and aspiring reason.
Between the evolved conscious
and the feel of the universe.
It blossoms out of the gloom
of anxiety into flowering white
of creativeness and is the difference
between a calculated life and
something infinitely grand. 

Perseverance

It is the overcoming of life,
it is taking the next steps
despite the world, and yet in
concert with the world.
It favors those who prepare
and those who allow the birth
of inspiration and is the
difference between dreams
forgotten and those lived.

Wisdom

Is life learning, it is listening
closely, discerning truths
from mysteries, reason from
un-inspired hopes, knowing
the difference between
stubbornness and perseverance.
It is the path from hope to
life’s realized dreams and
It is available to everyone.

—–

From Poetry Foundation a Poem By Donald Hall that is so very inspiring…

Ox-Cart Man 

by Donald Hall

In October of the year,
he counts potatoes dug from the brown field, 
counting the seed, counting 
the cellar’s portion out,
and bags the rest on the cart’s floor.

He packs wool sheared in April, honey
in combs, linen, leather
tanned from deerhide,
and vinegar in a barrel
hooped by hand at the forge’s fire.

He walks by his ox’s head, ten days
to Portsmouth Market, and sells potatoes,
and the bag that carried potatoes,
flaxseed, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose  
feathers, yarn.

When the cart is empty he sells the cart. 
When the cart is sold he sells the ox,
harness and yoke, and walks
home, his pockets heavy
with the year’s coin for salt and taxes,

and at home by fire’s light in November cold
stitches new harness
for next year’s ox in the barn,
and carves the yoke, and saws planks
building the cart again.

Soldier, what will break your fall?
Nothing, sir, nothing at all.

Why do you stand, gun in hand?
Orders given, to be here and stand.

Soldier would you fire on all of us?
If ordered, it appears that I must.

Would you interfere with polling?
If elections are threaten to be stollen.

But you must know you are a tool?
Yes, sir, but I serve those who rule.

But you won’t always be a soldier.
This is true, I’ll be like you when older.

Then soldier what will break your fall?
Nothing, sir, nothing at all

I know this seems cynical, but I imagine the use of troops to interfere with our democracy, and pray they are not put in such situations for there is no end to how far they and we could fall. 

The storm waves are brewing,
dangerous ideas have been stewing.
The barriers and guide-rails fail,
war and conflict is up for sale.

Who,  of you, will buy into this,
and risk the churning sea mist?
Will you even feel a pulling rip-tide
taking you deeper, for a deadly ride?

You see the red flags flying
You know people are dying,
and there’s no rescue if you go,
there’s only the abyss below.

An unthinking herd wades right in
following the powerful once again
into these stormy seas of hate
and on toward hell’s fiery gate.

Turn back before it’s too late!

Its great to make plans
to have a purpose and direction
but life happens, and the world
doesn’t cooperate as it should.

The nest is knocked to the ground
by an angry wind, the web is
destroyed by an unruly critter
the meadow is covered by early snow.

Life takes turns, and troubles
arise, and yet we rebuild, we
replan, we move forward, for
direction is its own purpose.

We are who we are because
of the adaptability bred into
us and the intellect we value
and continually evolve.

So plan with the angry wind
in mind, the unruly critter
possible and the prospect
of early snow

and continue to evolve
and learn.

We have no idea what the future may hold
we tell ourselves, in an attempt to be bold.

A way to avoid thinking it all through
and acknowledging what we know is true.

The future is no ninja in the night
It tells us over and over what’s right.

Just look to the past as a prologue
in order to see through the fog.

The fog we claim as our own is easier
than clarity of the image in the mirror.

We can say the future is unknown
but true intents have long been shown.

It’s no ninja in the night, it is right here
in broad daylight transparent and clear.

Ignorance is no excuse, we know who we are,
choose to fight, or meekly wear a yellow star.

Wakeup, the future is abundantly clear
and the danger very present and near.

Fascinating, hypnotic and yet elemental
it plays for you even if your attention fails
it is water and stone just as earthly as it is alien
it is constant motion and flow, gravity and power,
simple and complex with curves of origin and movement.

It is black as obsidian, and clear as cool streams
It plays to your life rhythms and conscious dreams
It plays to your peace and your connection to the world
It is quiet and yet it must be heard, for it is elemental
let it be part of you, and you are part of it and everything.

Fountain Magic