|We are all unique and amazing. With this notion bouncing around inside me I offer to the world what I have to share. The words inside my head have reached to overflowing and in an attempt to keep from exploding I have taken to writing. What follows is the result of purging my mind. If you like what you see, SUBSCRIBE at the top of the page.|
a poem a day (5/1/18)May 2, 2018
As the teacher, what I must do,
is create an environment
that is physically and emotionally safe for you.
Grieving (Stanley Strong)Apr 30, 2018
I drove past Stan’s shop the other day and was hit by a wave of hurt. He is still not there. He is supposed to be there. He isn’t coming back. He isn’t coming back. Six months after he died and I still look for him. All the stuff I wanted to say to him the next time we spoke is still waiting to be said. My eyes start to leak. Hell, I should call it by it’s name…. I am crying. I am crying I cry I don’t want to cry. I don’t know why half a year after his death I still cry when I pass his place or when I sit down and think about him not being anywhere. The big smile under the bushy mustache anytime I passed by his shop. We weren’t that close. We were as close as brothers who have a few things in common. Man, this aches right in the middle of my chest. It feels like a giant hand is squeezing my heart not enough to stop it but enough to make it have to really work. I don’t only miss Stan when I pass by the shop. Stan is in my garage too. My bike has a couple little drips that Stan was gonna get to when I brought the bike in some time. Two years of riding and we were gonna get to those drips. We both knew without saying it that if he didn’t get to the drips when I brought the bike in it was a good reason for another visit. I must have stopped in 10 times to deal with those drips only to leave after a good chat with plans to drop by next week to deal with them. We had time. The time we had together was so much more important than the bike or the drips or any of the material things that surrounded us. I’m not guessing at that, we actually talked about it. We had advice for each other. What we shared flowed both ways. And now it doesn’t flow at all. My eyes flow from time to time when I think of him. Did I really appreciate him this much when he was alive? Did he know it? Yeah, he knew it. Stanley was one of the guys who would say “I love you” to me while surrounded by gruff biker dudes and it was not awkward. And I would say “I love you” right back. One day this might not hurt so much, but today it still does.
a poem a day (4/30/18)Apr 30, 2018
The space within is greater, itself, than the thing
the unknowable far exceeds the known,
it is not hearing or seeing that is accepting,
it is fully grasping the un - known.
a poem a day (4/27/18)Apr 27, 2018
The divine enters,
on rays of sunshine,
in the song of birds,
with the breath of wind.
With each creation the divine becomes again.
a poem a day (4/26/18)Apr 26, 2018
The leaf is me,
alone on the tree,
awaiting my buds in the spring.
Grieving (4/26/18)Apr 26, 2018
When is it okay to not be okay? Drowning in air, unable to breath as the muscles constrict daring me to stop breathing. Fighting breathe unsure why I am fighting when succumbing would be so much easier. My vision blurs allowing me to see only what I don’t look at and nothing that I try to see. I would cry but that would only make my vision worse. All this for what? What is the root of this? Are these feelings and emotions just visiting or did I create them am I creating them? Is this normal? I am saturated with…. This….. It has no name. “This” is the brick that is sitting on my diaphragm making it hard to breath, not allowing space for my heart to beat normally. “This” is the brick of false reality that signifies that “This” is not a fantasy, “This” is real. And yet “This” is not real. There is no brick, even though it feels like there is. “This” is not real, there is nothing to fear. “This” is not real, I am okay even though I feel “This”. Fantasy, Dream, Nightmare, Reality, Feeling, Fact all blur into “This”. Why am I creating “This”? Or Wha is creating “This”? What am I to learn from “This”? And I have just shifted from feeling “This” with my heart to rationalizing “This”with my head. I am not sure that my head and my heart will ever be able to reconcile their accounts. And I don’t care if they do because for the moment I am distracted by that dilemma and I can breathe. I am okay within the distraction. I am okay and I am also not okay, for now.