Mom and Fireworks

Fourth of July fireworks lighting up the sky,
Watching mom's face,
As she ooohes and ahs.
Red, blue, pink, purple,
Reflected on her cheeks.
The longer and louder the finale,
The bigger her smile.
Going to fireworks without her,
The sparkling seems less bright,
The booms less loud,
The finale too short,
The ecstasy and innocence are gone.

Hiking Affirmation

Written in verse, but more of an affirmation than a poem.

Why do i like to hike?

Physical exercise,

The view,

Mental release.

Sometimes it’s more about the feeling

than the beauty.

Sometimes the only way to experience the beauty

Is to get to it on foot.

Sometimes the beauty is more magnificent

when you have to work to get there.

Hiking is a release.

Hiking is a tool.

Hiking is a journey.

Hiking is a way to feed my soul.

Hiking touches my soul.

Hiking keeps me human.

Hiking reminds me that

there is more to life than

my little piece of the world.

Hiking and Silence

Headphones.

Want to block outside sounds.

Only want to hear what I want to hear.

Silence.

Crunching of hiking boots

Random chirping

Wind

Breaths in time with footsteps.

Silence.

No need for headphones,

When the only sounds to hear

Are the ones you want to hear.

And sometimes there are no sounds

At all.

You can feel your lungs suck in and push out air,

Can feel your heartbeat,

Feel before hear.

Natural.

Peaceful.

Why do we have to travel so far

To find it.

And then lose it

When someone comes down the path

And doesn’t understand

Why we are there.

Silence

Such a precious commodity.

Not readily available

And it never lasts.

Silence,

A renewable source of energy.

Just need to seek it out

And hold onto it for

As long as you can.

Storm could be coming

The wind is picking up.

The flag across the street is rippling.

Last night a weatherman said a storm was coming.

It’s not here yet.

But soon.

For now, the wind is playing with everything in its path

And the clouds are blowing faster across the sky,

Hiding the blue.

A storm may be coming

But for now

The air is hot,

Skin is sticky,

Rain would feel

Really good.

It's all about the bass

Positive writing
How do people do it?
Writing feelings and worries and inner thoughts
Rarely brings out the happy.
The purpose of venting
is to release inner tension
get rid of the venom
and get on with my life.
And then it is happy time.

Why bother?

Too hot to type.
Too hard to type,
The return key isn’t working.
Coffee is cold,
Bread is soggy.
Stuffy, noisy, dirty place,
No inspiration.
Why bother?

Why

Searching
for answers,
questions,
anything
to explain
why.

How, where, and when
are easier.

Acting Class

I’m taking a basic acting class
at a local theater.
I figured after 63 years of being myself
tt would be nice to learn how to be
someone else.
I think I’m doing okay at it.
Have to shake some of my nervous mannerisms,
But for the most part,
Changing my voice
Reading someone else’s words
Figuring out tone of voice,
Facial expressions,
A little movement in someone else’s shoes,
Not being me,
Is kind of fun.
And not as hard as I thought it would be.
At least not at a basic level.
I guess after all of these years
I’m ready to shed my skin.

Old Father Time?

Time. Who hasn't complained about not having enough time, running out of time, having too much time. Every day, I have less time left to live. Or to flip it around, every day is one more day that I have lived.

Time,
the continuum we use
to measure
what we have accomplished.
Events going from
past through present
to future.
Always present,
the present becomes past,
the future is now,
and all kinds of existential bullshit.
Time is measured by seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years,
decades, scores, centuries.
Time is meaningless
and time means everything.
There's an old Father Time,
but not a mother.
I wonder what that means.

Inside, Outside

Is there such a thing as too much introspection?
I sure hope not.
Some days I live internally,
Dive deep into my head, heart, and soul.
Analyze my thoughts,
soothe my heart,
and free my soul.
Those are the dangerous days.
Raw, bare, open, vulnerable,
Brave, free, and aware.
Other days I am external,
Pretending the internal things don't exist,
don't matter,
don't effect me.
I carry on as if
I know what I'm doing
and don't have a care in the world.
Until I realize that I am on rewind,
At which point I switch modes
and so the cycle goes.
In, out, in, out.
I wonder if other people do this
or is it just me?

Searching

Gray Sundays seem to inspire gray poems.

Trying to get back in the groove.
can be difficult.
Wind, rain, life
have erased the ruts.
Trying to find my rhythm
in a new song.
Trying to blend in,
not be noticed
any more than necessary.
Trying to find my place
in this world,
in my life,
maybe even in someone else's life.
Trying to continue on a path
I know too well.
Trying to set my personal GPS
to find new routes,
new places,
new adventures,
new people.

Life goes on

Well, everybody dies, right?

Overheard from a room

while I’m standing in the hall

Of the skilled nursing facility.

While my mother

Is in her bed,

And we’re waiting

For the medical examiner

And funeral home guy.

Yup.

Everybody dies.

And life goes on.

It just feels different.

I think she’s gone

“I think she’s gone.”

One minute I was touching her hand

The next I stepped away for the hospice nurse

to check vitals.

One breath

and she was gone.

Sitting here,

Waiting

for the medical examiner

to verify and note time of death.

And then the funeral home will

take her away.

Next step is the freezer

And then a box.

And that is why I can’t stop looking at her

Before they clean and process

Dress her up

And put her on display.

And then close the box

And bury it.

We'll murmur prayers, Some of us will talk about her life, We'll laugh, cry, smile. and hug. We’ll all take the shovel and drop sand on her casket. Tradition.

Long life, Full life. Four kids, that's a lot of spirit left behind,

For fulfilling dreams

And continuing to fill vicarious needs

Of a mother’s heart.