Sample Poems
Your Great Adventure
In every great adventure a dark thread
winds, serpentine. Were it not so, wisdom’s
hard-earned skin, rough diamonds, could not be shed
along the rocky path that leads to freedom’s
shining shore. In every great adventure
some black seeds are sown amidst the green.
Were it not so, only mediocre
smooth paths, manufactured jewels, would be seen
here in this ever-changing universe.
A little risk and danger spice the pot.
Compassion comes from many wounds to nurse.
If you’re lucky, you’ll draw the winning slot.
Welcome contrast, sun and rain, summer, snow.
This is what all great adventurers know.
One January Morning Past Your Prime
Minus six degrees, frozen ribbon of dusky red
behind the trees, this sunrise.
Sun on windowpane terrarium—
ferns, sparkling diamond seas,
Lalique birds floating over crystal mountains.
Wrapped, warm in your white robe,
coffee with cream, engine starting slowly,
but starting, starting. This day
when most stress and striving leave footprints
behind you heading to the finish line,
more alike a turtle than a hare.
Marvel at destiny, good fortune,
despite the Sherpa’s pack of obstacles
on your back. You stood the course,
perseverance, a life coach shouting
behind the scenes. How you kept your promises
to arrive here,
this cold morning past your prime,
in your warm house, free from mortgage
or wayward desire that fueled
the person you used to be
before you saw the world,
before your loves, your scars,
your betrayals and compromises,
the hard won victories,
windfalls that flew in like wayward swans,
myriad kindnesses like flocks of sparrows.
The casino still jingles,
your bets are hedged toward more,
a bird or two in your pocket.
Marvel at the cardinal that endures sub-zero,
bright red and full of fervor,
waiting to take flight one more time.
Wild Fruition
Because the price of wisdom is to high—
like trumpet vines in wild fruition,
wisdom tangles and spirals toward the sky
and cannot be controlled. Come, completion
of roots, bulbs, and seeds. Flowers and trees
become, deep within the soil grow.
Essence of red rose in summer’s breeze.
Yet inward, wisdom to the rich river
goes, nourished by the inland sea’s fresh flow.
Then the receiver becomes the giver.
The price of wisdom is so high because
Paradise is a garden returned to
bruised, where only mercy and nature’s laws
inform the heart. Red rose renew.
The Sweet Spot
Some day you may find yourself
in the sweet spot.
It will not be perfect
but it will be enough.
You and your lover will still snore
but make the best of it,
creating jokes just past midnight,
like “Where’s the aardvark?”
or “I hear the rolling thunder,”
but you will still be in the sweet spot,
where, as another poet once said,
there is nothing to dread,
at least not every single day
compared to before,
when big time stress, maybe even crisis,
was your daily companion,
the one that power walked
never strolled through life,
not to mention smelling the lavender
or talking to hummingbirds.
Remember that guy?
The one who woke you from sleep
chattering and chasing you
through murky dreams?
When you’re in the sweet spot,
he’s gone. Kaput.
It may feel like loss.
You must trust that loss,
redefine it.
Call it emptiness,
the kind the Buddhists seek,
when you are not filled to the brim
with busyness and toil.
Now you have a wide space to enjoy
the fruits of your labor,
the pomegranate to savor,
seed by seed,
big blackberries for breakfast,
and all that wide, wonderful time
on your fingertips. Go ahead.
Enjoy it. Whoever said life
was all about work and toil,
ambition and more,
never knew the sweet life-
the long, luxurious meander,
mid-afternoon for no good reason
whatsoever.