Instructions for this Life

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,
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.

Midnight Deja-vu

I don’t want to go back,
But I am unsure of forward;
Frustration meets me
In this state of being
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;
I am here
and now looking,
For a place,
the next move.

How (A Man’s World)

“It’s a man’s world,”
they say,

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:

White Feather

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,
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
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
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.

Impossible Possible

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.