Uncle Jim

by Peter Meinke

What the children remember about Uncle Jim
is that on the train to Reno to get divorced
so he could marry again
he met another woman and woke up in California.
It took him seven years to untangle that dream
but a man who could sing like Uncle Jim
was bound to get in scrapes now and then:
he expected it and we expected it.

Mother said, It's because he was the middle child,
and Father said, Yeah, where there's trouble
Jim's in the middle.

When he lost his voice he lost all of it
to the surgeon's knife and refused the voice box
they wanted to insert. In fact he refused
almost everything. Look, they said,
it's up to you. How many years
do you want to live? and Uncle Jim
held up one finger.
The middle one.

silence
when words would be better
words
when no safe ones exist
emotions
when all is begging for calm
calm
when intensity is needed

will it always be this faceted
stacked and balanced off balance
as oblique angles of opposites
fight for relevance

in a perfect world,
only safe words would be said
calmness would bring respite
emotions would morph into true feelings
and intensity would spark a revival

but until then
words will come out stumbling
never knowing for sure if they helped
or caused pain
and the ratio of intensity to calmnes
will never be exactly right.

Eldorado~~~
 

'Tis the Set of the Sail by poetess -Ella Wheeler Wilcox
 

'Tis the Set of the Sail -- or -- One Ship Sails East

Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1916

But to every mind there openeth,
A way, and way, and away,
A high soul climbs the highway,
And the low soul gropes the low,
And in between on the misty flats,
The rest drift to and fro.

But to every man there openeth,
A high way and a low,
And every mind decideth,
The way his soul shall go.

One ship sails East,
And another West,
By the self-same winds that blow,
'Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales,
That tells the way we go.

Like the winds of the sea
Are the waves of time,
As we journey along through life,
'Tis the set of the soul,
That determines the goal,
And not the calm or the strife.

"Cry" - James Blunt

I have seen peace. I have seen pain,
Resting on the shoulders of your name.
Do you see the truth through all their lies?
Do you see the world through troubled eyes?
And if you want to talk about it anymore,
Lie here on the floor and cry on my shoulder,
I'm a friend.

I have seen birth. I have seen death.
Lived to see a lover's final breath.
Do you see my guilt? Should I feel a fright?
Is the fire of hesitation burning bright?
And if you want to talk about it once again,
On you I depend. I'll cry on your shoulder.
You're a friend.

You and I have lived through many things.
I'll hold on to your heart.
I wouldn't cry for anything,
But don't go tearing your life apart.

I have seen fear. I have seen faith.
Seen the look of anger on your face.
And if you want to talk about what will be,
Come and sit with me, and cry on my shoulder,
I'm a friend.
And if you want to talk about it anymore,
Lie here on the floor and cry on my shoulder,
Once again.
Cry on my shoulder,
I'm a friend.



I so want to cry right now.... :(

Little Cloud
 

Little Cloud
© 1999 Mike Bosson

When we look at a cloud,
we look at it and call it a cloud,
but we know it is composed of other things.

Today it is a cloud,
but yesterday it was part of the ocean
and tomorrow it will be rain,
we know this and don't struggle with it.

We don't hold one stage as being
more important than the other,
the ocean is beautiful,
clouds are beautiful,
rain is beautiful.

When the cloud becomes rain
we don't say that the cloud has died
and lament its passing,
but it has died if we want to say
that the cloud no longer exists
in its previous form.

But we feel comforted because we know
that rain is essential to life on earth
and embrace the change,
the cloud in its new form.

It is only ego that holds that we are more important
than the cloud and makes us cling so dearly
to our present form.

From all I have observed in nature
and from within my soul,
I cannot believe that anything that exists
after death can be anything but wonderful.

Afternoon on a hiill
 

Edna St. Vincent Millay -

Afternoon On A Hill

I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
And then start down!

A Father's Pain
 

A Father’s Pain
by Larry Smith

My father ignored his pain,
rode it out without complaint—
high threshold they call it now.

He worked as a brakeman in snow and rain.
Once he pulled his own back tooth,
held the pain in his side one time
till it burst his appendix, then
lay in a hospital bed for days.

He wasn’t hard on us kids,
never struck us, took us to
doctors and dentists when needed.
He used to sing in the car
bought us root beers along the road.
He loved us with his deeds.

The day he died, he played golf
in the morning, came home,
muffling the pain in his arm,
went upstairs and lay down.

Honey, Can You Hear Me

by James Tate

Alison stared into the mirror and combed her hair. How
beautiful she was! "I look awful," she said. I bent down and
tied my shoe and hit my head on the coffee table on the way up.
"Ouch," I said. "What did you say, honey?" she said. "I said
we ought to buy a new couch," I said. "I thought we just bought
one," she said. "We could buy another one so we'd have a backup
in case anything happens to this one," I said. She didn't answer
me, but continued to brush her hair. I stared down at my shoes
and said, "Something is so wrong there." "What did you say, honey?"
she said. I said, "It will be wonderful to be there tonight."
"Where's that, honey?" she said. "Wherever it is that we're going,"
I said. "We're not going anywhere," she said. "I meant here. It
will be wonderful to be here tonight," I said. "A little romantic
night at home," she said. What did she mean by "nomadic"? A little
nomadic night at home. There were times when I worried about
Alison. She hovered right on the borderline, about to cross over into
her own private realm, where nothing she sees or hears corresponds
to anything in the known world. I live with this fear daily. My
shoes are on the wrong feet, or so it seems to me now

Simple Drops of Grace
 

In my fondest vision, I see you
dancing with incredible dexterity
and boundless elation.
leaping from cloud to cloud.
lighting flaming torches
to keep the darkness away from others
and hurling moonbeam spears
somewhere beyond forever.

I see you shining now in an ecstasy of perfection
and blending perfectly
with the glory of unlimited love.
You have resumed your dance
with the power of creation
and all the right moves are coming back.
And when play is over,
passion stilled for just a moment.

I see you peering over the precipice of heaven,
looking down to where we're rooted, awash in grief,
and breathing compassion and blessed assurance that
falls into our hearts like simple drops of grace.

author..Harold Hopkins