Where Will We

Be tomorrow when
We leave this present behind?
Is there much future
Left for us to find, explore?
We may not know anymore.
Creativity
Beckons with many prizes,
But will we survive
The breaking down of culture,
The wrestling for position?
Ah, superstition
Reckons itself mighty in
The material
Sphere, naming one this, one that,
Begging as it puts on hats.
We need must make peace
With what we experience
Now, somehow, someway,
Or it becomes our portion
Of unquiet yesterday,
Bleeding all over
Present, future being, leaves
Us constant struggle
With only hope to battle
For who we ready become.
We founded ourselves
Among the bold, the rebels,
Those who employ love
To conquer the multiverse
And so, we must continue.
Life swears us nothing
But serves us what we gather
In its give and take
Our dreams, plans, only matter –
If we choose to make them so.
Tomorrow awaits
With a bright, fresh countenance –
Likewise, we may go
Into the fair abundance
Free of angst, full of good cheer.
It is ours to choose
In our freedom, who we are,
Who we will become;
In doing, we can create
A refuge of lovely peace.

Time Again

Every month it is
The same – others on me have
Claims, well, more upon
My funds, they all want money,
For my life to smoothly run.
I allocate this
Here, that there, everyone gets
Their (un)fair share of
What I have got which is not
A lot, but I cannot complain.
The dogs and I, we
Still can eat and have a place
To stay, play, and sleep.
Life is not bad, could be worse,
I will keep smiling, happy,
At peace with what is
My universe, thankful Christ
Oversees all things
Taking care that we are well,
Safe, blessed beyond deserving.

No Rust Here

Our halos fell off
Many long years ago, or
Perhaps never once
Were ours, here to wear, joy share;
Life is bizarre now, never
The things one expects,
Disorganized, time of plague.
Disaster movies
Did not well prepare us all;
Constant stress, no withdrawal.
Government, all states
Of confusion, shattered gates,
Disillusion where
Clear-eyed justice is sorely
Needed in citizens’ control.
Pandemic, if we
Can believe it, some less so,
Numbers rising much
Higher, how can anyone
Deny contagion, people die.
If you love someone
Do not hesitate to tell
How much you love, care,
For as these days go onward
We can on little depend
Even less believe
In temporal existence;
We lack any guarantees.
Still, God sovereign reigns,
Even in this mess, we find rest,
When we share our love
With those who need to know all
Is not lost, for together
We will build futures,
Shoring up the brokenness
Living better than before.

Unwritten

I meant to write you
A letter, but somehow got
Lost without the time;
I told myself you’d not mind.
Sometimes I lose all my place
Slipping in between
The moments, the blanks in space,
I had the words set
To scribe but became waylaid
By other tasks and could not
Settle down enough
To do justice to the work.
So here is a poem
To say I regret having
Not written, maybe someday;
You never knew anyway.

As a prompt, create something about a task you mean to do, but never seem to get done.

Chance

She held out her hand, and he clasped it in the largeness of his own. His grip was tender but enveloping, and she clung to him with the strength of a rising raptor.

“I never thought to see you here,” she whispered.

As he let go of her hand, which he had gingerly shaken, he said, “Neither did I anticipate your presence.”

“We must be lucky,” she said, a smile lifting her lips and lightening her eyes.

He stepped backward, “I would not say it that way. It is another life for us both these days.”

Shadows seemed to gather grayly, blackly, round her, some clouding her previously radiant face. Her voice quivered, choked, “Ah, then, I will be getting on my way. Fare thee well, and never you stop to worry yourself over the one who dearly loved you on that long misbegotten yesterday. It is now over; as have you, so have I forgotten that love we partook.”

The crimson skirt and ebon cape swirled, like ripples in a pond, around her as she turned and stalked away. His dark eyes followed her until the fog swallowed her form. Then he wondered, was she a specter imagined, or the reality that haunted every passing dream.