Poem Thirty - The Finish

This is the finish line.
All the poems are written,
Posted on my blog,
Polished in the rush.
Thirty poems in thirty days - a job
Of huge proportion, yet
No arduous task.
As with blessings, poems need
Only to be seen,
Heard with mind's ear,
Sounded in the heart,
Captured in soft bindings,
Shown to the world.

Poem Twenty-nine - Terry is Six

Terry turned six today.
Dark eyes shining,
He had sung a song,
"And I'm gonna be,
And I'm gonna be,
Six years old!"
Of course he had not stopped at six,
And made himself older
With each verse.
Perhaps his best present
Is his Daddy in his arms.
Finally able to
Be there for him.

Poem Twenty-eight - Fall Morning

This morning air curled crisp,
October sky canopied clear,
Fog rose from the pond,
And smoke from stone chimney.
Cows lowed in the meadow,
A dog barked down the lane.
A semi rumbled, swept the leaves,
Down the highway leading west.

Poem Twenty-seven - Argument

Freezing in my own heart’s winter,
Clutching myself with my self,
Hunching against wordwinds,
Grabbing soul tatters,
Clenching teeth,
Dying,
Proud.

Poem Twenty-six---Soul Healing Circle

We are here and frightened,
Grasping straws of reason,
Buffeted by chance or fate,
Victims for a season.

Some choose the comfort of a faith,
Some ritual, some luck,
Some declare there is no God,
Some rely on pluck.

At some time each has found a place
Where life has been unjust,
And where we cannot heal ourselves.
Who then can we trust?

Come together in a group
Tell all your woes and fears,
Though each is different, they all share
A gift for salving tears.

Soul Healing Circle, all are blessed
With gifts of love and care,
And all who are encircled,
Will find much comfort there.


--written for the Facebook group, Soul Healing Circle

Poem Twenty-five---Rain

Silver slanting sharpness,
Blowing blasts of wet,
Wild rivulet on concrete,
Wash away regret.

Poem Twenty-four - Poem

Everything's a poem.
The song of voices in a restaurant,
The rumble of truck motors.
Starlight and shooting stars,
Sunset and black silhouettes,
The rhythm of the rolling wheels,
The faces of people
I will never meet again.
Everything's a poem.
The words tumble from my fingers,
Magical, amusing,
Sad weeping and child-like laughter:
Trying to catch it all,
I can't type fast enough.
Everything's a poem.