If

 

 

You toss me watercolor daisies,

when my hands would conjure you a garden

of blazing bouquets, if you hint just the least.

For one minute, if you’d care at all.

 

You sing me listless tunes you’ve worn,

when my fingers would line out such symphonies

of sounds never heard, if you join just the least.

For one minute, if you’d sing along.

 

You press crumpled paper into my fist,

when my purse bursts seams wide with gold-full,

of riches never seen, if you’d open just the least.

For one minute, if you’d only let go.

Ask me. I Dare You

Ask me. I dare you.

[But I forgot… ]

I soak color from the walls, brushing it into pictures, twisting it into wool afghans.

All these against leather sofas on wood floors.

Charged with sunlight from unveiled windows.

Smells of  home cooked food linger over an old sad body draped in beautiful clothing.

I walk every day, unless I dance wildly to whole-hearted red-blooded music.

Long tub baths go best with sweet-smelling oil.

And books.

Meaningful conversations with loved ones emanate laughter, tears and hugs.

A house full of children, music, and dance…  where all join in.

[can you hear it?]

And the first one to get there…

[wins]

the companion

Only a bit farther

please don’t lose my hand

guide me around the corner,

we’ll find ourselves again.

Tell another story

since laughter eases pain

talking around the corner,

we’ll find joy again.

Slow the pace, catch lost breath,

bear up old souls in strong arms

love sits just beyond the corner,

where we’ll find rest again.

Bruised

Chosen

I breathe into you.

Rest as I bandage weal and wound

mark, mangle,

bend and break.

A tiny bruised blade of grass.

I brace on pillars of stone,

bind against stanchions of truth,

guard with promise of amends.

Quietly I whisper peace,

arouse what smolders and seethes,

reignite to consume,

dare live yet longer,

in hope.

A few handfuls….

Let go your two-fisted man-handle; the grasping.

Waken complacent stumps; set aside your famine.

Take straight view of what remains ahead:

When things work for one;  they work for none.

.

Please take hold of my hand. Once young,

and now being old, I will tell you stories.

Choice tales make simple children wise;

and shape better princes from mere men.

We’ll gather threads, and twine them

Walk the road;  lean in, take hold together.

Frequent falling, fear, and callous cold,

 on shared path,  fade forgotten behind us.

Taste one sweet handful of quietness;

Its richness dangles just within our reach

Rouse stumbling feet; waken fumbling fingers;

Let go all blustering, noisy, empty wind.

And rest…

The Lady

The lady longed for a castle,
a mansion filled with beauty.
He took her into his home
and enthroned her on his heart.
 
The lady then desired admiration…
that effort be strengthened by others.
He granted her his own favor, others’
praise for him dressed her quite finely.
 
She took to work with her hands
wearing fingers rough and callous.
He took over by strength of his hands,
and taught her his songs of gratitude.
 
She built  strong walls, gates, with thick bars.
Tearing them apart, he kept her safe…
Gently surrounded her with a village—
a dwelling of peace, love and rest.