Leaving Traces

When running, go ever lightly
Though rapid as a cheetah hunting –
Not tracking nose down, like hounds,
See the earth rising with each lunge
Catch the vision, scene in
An opportunity of words supposed
Bright foils that scrimmage
When captured upon an open page.

State the business though
Monkeyed it might be, sing it
If it is harmony – carrying peace
Like lovely masses where
Every syllable shines a precious gem
Reflections lifting sorrow, erasing
Care from souls doubting life
Can be borrowed for tomorrow.

Cupping hands for freshwater
To cool the parchment of thirst
Brought on by racing to make
This day savory, trusting
An exhausted body to rebound
Outlining a future of remarkable
Service with little decrepitude.

Lightly, overcoming the weight
Bowing shoulders, fast, losing hope;
Bringing victorious kindness forth
Presenting before the Spirit of Love
Forwarding any praise essential;
Though perhaps not winning first
God attends every soul careering on.

Staid – Still

Men and Women, collectively,
Individually,
Are fallible – prone to error.

Even those who lend hands,
Hearts, wings,
To others have days when
The world in agony and splendor
Becomes a weight beyond compare.

Failure
Is a
Habitual
Villian –
Following all who give much,
Loving more than wisdom advises.

Mistakes
Rob dignity, showcase weakness,
Tear away beauty, expose flaws,
But when opposed, the heroes
Survive.

Their stars may gain a patina,
Some hearts may doubt, lose respect;
Even those called their own
May turn away in disappointment.

As clouds clear, heroes stand, go on.

High Date

Today is my son Alex’s birthday. I hesitate to reveal his age because I am not old enough, but he is 33 years old today. If a child has ever been a blessing, Alex is one.

There are so many accomplishments he made of which I am proud. The thing most touching to my heart is that we are best friends.

Understandably I am spending time with him since he is local. It is the first time since 2006 we have been together on his day. So you will pardon me for a brief entry.

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I feel we play now
Off the staff, without clef, bars,
Improvisation.

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Tuning instruments
Preparing the score, once more,
In harmony, join.

Instants Gather

Be strong, for there is
No other way to conquer fear
Or release the love
Needed to set worlds aright,
Let hearts go on burning bright.
Disappointment will
Steal every happiness, if let –
Expectations stir
The wellsprings of discontent –
Even deserted choose joy.
Make alone – free space
For empowerment and learning
Bask in the design
Which allows acquisition
Of skill, creativity.
Most experience
Starts in imagination,
Thought being precious
Never waste it, cultivate
Attitudes of gratitude.
Be a positive
Person in a negative
World and different
When others opt to conform,
Be a presence live unique.

The Dog Is Not…

The dog is not about the rain. Miserable brown oval lakes accuse me of cruelty. For the raindrops fall, she sudden stops, still and quaking, shakes from nose to tail. I am unwilling this walk to take, but duty tethers me. She cannot count the scents for cover of water; slick it leaves her empty. She tucks her tail, turns, trots me to the door. I warn her, in vivid terms, not to make a deposit in the floor, but does it go beyond her flying nun orifices for understanding? I doubt it; stubbornness is her template. She is that dog, glimpsed, my heart forsook reason, had to adopt, immediately. Love names her mine; pain asks me why? The dog is not about the rain.

I guess this is a prose poem. I do them on occasion. Sometimes breaking lines is an inconvenience.

As a prompt, create something in a form you rarely use.

Bless You!