Grasping: A Prayer

Sometimes I catch myself grasping
For things I cannot have
Wishing, wanting, reaching
For love or income or recognition,
As if to bring those things closer,
That will surely go running
Just for the grasping.

I can't claim innocence.
My grasping is not without thought.
It is not without recognition of
How damaging grasping can be,
It is not without knowledge of
The selfishness of the act.
I know the consequences
And I beg myself to stop.
And yet I can't.

Forgive me God for my grasping,
Give me caring enough to withstand it,
Give me patience enough to wait,
Give me love enough to think about
Someone other than myself,
Hold my hands God,
Hold my hands.

Dog's Ears Never Sleep

My dog, she is sleeping,
Eyes closed,
Mouth open,
Breathing even,
Round furry head
Upside down or sideways,
Paws large and relaxed.

Her legs chase a dream rabbit,
White eyelashes flutter,
Her tail, usually curled tightly about her hips,
Lies flat on the bed.

But the ears,
They never sleep,
They are always alert
For my every step,
I sit up.  She is up already,
So that she might follow me
Wherever I might go.

The Nature Of Doors and Stairways

You close the door
Darkness is so pervasive
It covers the sun.
You are covering my sun.
And yet I would trade the sun
For the odd moon
Just to keep you near.

I question the road I am on,
I look for runes,
I hope and pray for change.
I hope and pray that nothing will change.

And when I open the door
The light stills the cool darkness
The crickets stop singing
The birds chant an erie song.
It is upsettingly cheery.
I fear rejection.
I shut the door.
I feel comforted by the dark.

All is well until
I fall down the stairs.

Touching

I think of you first, almost before waking.
Outside the window, I watch the solid horizontal ridgeline,
Old and unmoving, juxtaposed against swaying vertical lines,
Myriad branches and leafless trees.
I wish to touch the sky between them.
I wish to touch you. 
I wish you would touch me.
There are so many things in the way.
I don't know what they are.
I can't call them by name.

Making Peace

I think it might be important to make peace with what is, before moving on to what is to come.  I try to live in the present as much as possible, but now and again a trip back, to evaluate, for educational purposes, isn't a bad thing.

It does appear that every now and again, god has to give us a good, swift kick in the pants, for no apparent reason.  Maybe it is fun to watch us dance.  Maybe it is a learning lesson.  Maybe it is just a cosmic accident.  But it does happen and on the great continuum, if it doesn't involve the death of a spouse, child, beloved pet or loved one, we are pretty darned lucky.

Sometimes, however, we find ourselves stuck, in a situation that is not of our making, that is painful, offensive and sickening.  It makes us ill, our health declines, our hearts break and our souls wither. And still we try to change the situation.

There are many good sayings about these situations: "Out of difficulty grows miracles." "God won't give us anything we can't handle." "When a door closes, a window will open." But I object somewhat to the passive nature of these phrases.  I do not believe god puts us in these situations, so he can rescue us from them.  We must rescue ourselves. We must tear a hole in our own brick wall, using something on the order of a toothpick and our own fingernails, until our worldview changes, the boundaries of our thought processes expand, and we find peace, not in changing the situation, but in moving beyond it.

“There is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.”

Washington Irving quotes (American Writer called the first American man of letters. Best known for the short stories The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. 1783-1859)

Sunset of We

Pacific Island,
Elongated beach,
Sapphire water
Pinkish sand,
Chubby bare legs
Of bucket-toting children,
Catching my eye.

Shimmering.

I choose to remember
That day,
The smell of salt;
No hint of rain.
We were so
Elegant then,
Lacquered pacific lunch box,
On a teakwood deck,
Amber iced tea,
Exotic ginger in a vase,
Hypnotic sea breeze,
Twisting fortune,
The belief you loved me
That I deserved your love,
That it could last forever
Floating effortlessly overhead.

I did not expect then
That I would fail us, destroy us,
With the formidable force
Of an unborn, ill-conceived baby
Of the female imagination.
And I did not expect that you
Could deny me something
Of such importance
With such ease.

After that,
We traveled alone.

Now we are older;
Not so elegant.
None of it really matters,
But it still stings.

Poverty

Just as the bleary eyes of a child
Wait for Santa long past bedtime,
I lie in the dark, waiting for you.
I play in the imaginary sandbox
Of goodness (in case goodness might help),
Until the bright plastic of my
Sandbox toys fades to milk.
I dance in the imaginary light of service
Until I know every weakness I possess.
I wield the puppets of compassion
Until they become awkward, and still,
As self-serving as an antique mirror.
I awaken and find I love you still
Even if I don’t qualify,
Even if Christmas never comes.