THE SPRING

The spring could not wait

To spring this year.

Like the sprinter

Sprinting

Long before the gun goes off,

There was spring,

Springing and flirting with us

The way an impetuous lover

Advances toward the nubile object

Of his desire.

Now the calendar tells us

That spring is finally here.

But it has been for a great while.

Spring has gotten comfortable

In our skins.

It’s not so very warm,

But not so very cold.

It’s just right

To kick your feet up,

Watch the sunset,

Inhale warmth,

And exhale with pleasure.

It feels good

When the birds chirp,

And the sun lingers.

And soon enough

Clothes are shed

Like useless skin.

And our colors come out,

And our wings spread

In comfortable glee.

Spring makes butterflies

Of the people who love it.

And brings all of life

Into full bloom.

MY MYSTICAL, MYTHICAL LIFE

Sometimes, when I am walking

On a street or in a store,

I take a very deep, big breath,

And I hold it as though I were

About to go underwater.

In the moment before I exhale,

My soul remembers

Where it has been.

I know that

I lived under the sea.

I was a mer-man.

I lived in the sea below Santorini,

Many thousands of years ago,

When men were gods

And those that were not

Lived in the deep,

Big blue expanse.

I was powerfully strong.

I could swim 50 miles underwater.

I breathed with gills in my stomach.

I had no sense or need

For time or for place.

My lover was absolutely beautiful.

Her red hair, her hazel eyes

Held me awestruck

And motivated me to greater strength.

Our ecstasy made us glow

Like the gods we aspired to be.

Her beauty reflected my own.

How did I die?

How did I stop swimming?

Is that just what happened?

Did a predator have the better of me

One harrowing day?

I’ve lived many lives since then.

But my soul always remembers

The first one.

I would give so much,

You would not believe

Just how much

To feel that powerful,

That gorgeous,

That magical

Again.

I want to go back into the ocean

And feel like I’m home

Again.

Names

Names.

That’s all they are.

Names.

Printed in black on white paper.

Names.

Cold, bloodless, joyless.

As clinical as statistics.

I see names

Every hour of every day.

More often than not,

Those names are associated

With complaints.

It was not so long ago

That I could put myself

In the place

Of the people behind those names.

I could step into their shoes,

Imagine their lives

And livelihoods.

Their homes, families, cars.

For three minutes at a time

I could see a name

And try to figure out,

If not understand,

Their hardships.

Now, the names are just names.

Now, they are not so much

Flesh, blood and emotion

As they are facts.

Now, if you asked me

To step into their shoes,

I am not entirely sure

That I could.

You see, they are so much more

Than names

And demands

To me.

They have organs, senses,

Ideas and beliefs.

I want to know more.

Besides their names.

PURE SPIRIT

Pure spirit,

She sits on the green grass

And in her power.

Pure spirit,

Unfettered by creed or color

Uncluttered by politics or religion.

Pure spirit,

Eyes comfortably closed,

Hands open to the golden sun.

Her silent prayer for peace

Leaps across the miles

And lands in my heart.

Her magic strikes me

Whenever I see her picture

Or think of her name.

And I sit, enchanted,

Shifting inside.

My heart opens to the

Mighty power within.

And I, too

Become pure spirit.

Definitely for a moment,

Perhaps for an hour,

One day, for all eternity.

O, to walk on the air,

To dance on the sea

To see

What pure, raw spirit sees.

PRIDE

I don’t remember the last time

I had a sense of pride.

I don’t remember when I last felt

That I had achieved something.

How long has it been since I could

Pat myself on the shoulder

And feel good about myself?

I really don’t know when.

When I come home at night,

Nothing in the hours that came

Before it could make me proud.

Nothing is better.

No one is stronger or wiser

Nothing good has happened

Because of me.

I haven’t brought joy to the life of another person

By good words or good deeds.

No.

I do nothing that I am proud of.

I serve no greater good.

I am a hamster.

And my only purpose

Is to run endlessly

On a wheel.

Going nowhere in particular.

Doing nothing meaningful.

Having no particular sense

Of accomplishment

Or pride.

The Seagulls and the Wind

One by one, the seagulls

Drop down close

To the churning water

And then they rise to fly

Into the teeth

Of a stiff wind.

They tilt their wings

This way and that

And struggle to

Gain traction.

Most of the seagulls

Are blown back

Toward the shore

But they only know

To keep going.

A seagull

Is a bird

Undeterred

By the wind

And the rain

And the pain

They cause.

One day, he will

Make it out

Past the winds.

One day, he will

Make it

Out to sea.