There should be clear answers But there are not, There ought to be specific directions, Instructions in a manual of how to operate This vessel, In this life, But there are not, No “How to”, to be in different modes, Different states of being, In times of joy and great despair, Instead, one is left with hearsay, Lessons, from others who have traveled, Down their own paths, This wisdom shared to guide in the unknown; Herein lay the hope: There is no one right track, No one right way to traverse This path you tread, You lead; It is unpaved, Meant to be worn by this very trek, Thereby shaped by you.
I don’t want to go back, But I am unsure of forward; Frustration meets me In this state of being Stuck; Home is where the heart is, Still, a place is needed, To be, For one to be lifted up By land and Held by space, That which is affirming and accepting, And welcomes you to its setting, I am working on that for me, For us, After adversity jettisoned us From where we had Only meant to be temporarily, Somehow, I had forgotten; Midnight, Deja-vu, Online, I am here and now looking, For a place, the next move.
But someone still Needs to teach The little ones, Gender irrelevant, How to do, To survive, To get by, When a “man” is gone, Not present, Never present, Or passed on; What of little girls never taught To change a tire; Or mow the lawn? We teach her To understand dependence, Believe it, Then rip off the illusion With age; Man, woman Mortality is the great equalizer, Teach the little ones, all: How.
A white feather, From one of my ventures, Resides on my vehicle dashboard, The air through my windows on a hot day Lifted and carried the feather In flight, As such things are meant to; Scurrying to recapture my feather, I am reminded It was never mine, It never grew from my body, And yet now I hold to it As if it were a part of me, In a way, it is, The remembrance of its coming to be with me, And the miles, Moments, Mishaps and memories I also collected with it present; The feather, Worn but white, is a symbol Of what I have been through, Carried by the wind, To always make a landing, With grace, Wherever I may descend.
I have not the slightest idea What to write Yet; My fingers ache For the outstretched movement of muscle, To bring symbols to life, With a scratch of graphite, The flow of ink, In key presses, Or a screen swipe by impatient digits; This mind is a cipher of possible letter, word combinations, Awaiting the right alignment, A key –Inspiration, To Communicate Feeling and thought, Forged in the furthest recesses Of this artistically wired mind, Bringing forth symbols, Strung into messages, All in an effort to unlock, and light up thine.
Do you know who you would be today, If no one had ever crushed any of your dreams; If doubters had paid no mind, And never stole your thunder? Do you know how high you would have flown, if as a little one, no one said you “can’t ”? Do you know right now who you are, And how perfect and amazing you are, Regardless of what has come before, Or where you are now? “Perfect” is not A state of flawlessness, But being of use for what a “something” was meant to be for. Be you- perfect, For you, And realize it too; just first believe even the impossible is possible.