In the Middle of the Mud

mud

I spent years at the edge.

I paraded with my picket sign

to demonstrate my disdain for the dregs,

lobbied for others to clean up their act,

slung my share of dirt

in the hopes that none of it would come home to me.

I washed my hands of it.

But you –

you put on your rubber boots

and slogged into the middle of your mess

and made mud pies.

You got up to your elbows in it

and your laughter sang

and your eyes widened at the wonder of it all

and I dared to hope

that maybe here,

in the middle of the mud,

there might be something real.

Something that smelled of soil

and germination,

rain and sunshine woven

into a thing of beauty.

Your laughter is gone, now –

but I bought a new pair of boots

and I’m hungry.

I’m hungry for

mud pies…

On the Fence

sitting-on-the-fence

To be, or even not to be,

That is not the question;

But what to do with every day,

With all in my possession.

It isn’t where I land that counts,

But how I make each stride;

It’s less what I accumulate

Than what I’m like inside.

 

 

 

Laundry

You made this bed of nails I lie in.

A skewered butterfly,

addition to your

collection,

I swallowed hook, line, and linen.

But this is 2016.

It’s time

to change

the sheets.

 

Peace Is

yellow pollen

Peace is pollen, miniscule seed

That roots in mindful soil; it breeds

Where thoughts are harboured, captured by

A mind that chooses what supply

To water, weed, and tend with care,

And which to deny access there.

After thoughts which harm are routed

Peaceful seeds can then be sprouted;

Global gardens introspected

Are the places peace perfected.

Peace begins within – before hatred can grow and germinate, it must be thought, considered, ingested into the soul. As our hearts move toward those in Paris and Beirut who have suffered at the hands of hatred, I must ask – How does your garden grow?