A Plea to the Sailor

I sit atop this sailboat’s cabin,

The boat tied securely to a weather worn dock

Water laps against the hull.

My legs stretch out between the lines and winches.

My back rests against the mast.

August’s morning sun warms me,

Commands action to my arm, my hand, my pen.

Write, write, write!

This moment is calling.

The mast at my back

Tall and strong,

Centers and pivots the power of this craft.

Below the keel reaches deep.

Weighted blade assures a true course.

At sea, with sails flying,

The mast, rigging, keel,

And skill of the sailor

Construct the perfect wing,

Empowers the vertical lift.

The sailor harnesses the chaos of

Wind and sea

Moves this heavy craft and all aboard

                        Faster than the wind.

Today, my words,

Docked vessels,

Beg the sailor to come aboard.

Please, loose the constraints of doubt,

Lighten the weight of my heart’s inertia.

Construct the perfect wing,

Empower the vertical lift.

Harness words into imagery

True, pure and concise.

Move this heavy craft and all aboard

                        Faster than the wind.

           

Dirty Laundry

The archaeological dig through my laundry hamper,

Alternating layers; shorts and t-shirts,

Sweats and sweatshirts.

Our spring brings warm and cold.

Sun sandwiched between rainy, windy days.

Shorts one day, fleecy shirts and jeans the next.

I struggle for the metaphor.

The blurred line between seasons?

Life’s highs and lows?

The meaninglessness of average?

Perhaps it is just that we dress ourselves

To face each day

Based on the predicted weather,

Never anticipating

The messiness

The hurt

The dirt

The ache.

These stains saturate the clothes;

The limp textured textile layers

Piled, one day to the next.

Kindly discarded.

Just laundry in the hamper.

June 18, 2012

Valley of the Shadow

(written as I sadly contemplated putting my lovely Pearl dog down)

Valley of the Shadow

I heard her hesitant knock.

I opened the door.

She was out there

But not anxious to enter.

I drug her in.

I studied her,

Inhaled her empty air.

I crumpled each hour

Into a miserable remembrances,

Eagerly tossing them one by one

Into my personal heap of

History.

Death, you decrepit notion

Sitting here beside me,

Lips sealed.

Shy? No.

Coy, perhaps.

I’ll let you out

For now…

…and beg myself to

Write of Life

In tight, trite phrases,

Like I think know It,

And I don’t.

February 6, 2012