Cultural heroes pass in untimely death,
And suddenly how close mortality seems to us all,
A stark reminder that mortality is always a heartbeat away,
And despite this knowledge
Only with loss do we bend to knees and pray,
Not for miraculous everlasting life,
But for enough time while it’s ours,
To do all that is needed to be done,
To make right our actions
To let loved ones know
In word and deed that they are loved
and of their value to our personal existence,
And this all takes time,
Takes heartbeats,
-Thump-
There goes another beat,
Now is always the time,
To do what you would,
If you had just one last
Heartbeat.
Tag: Poetry
Dust and Shrapnel
And then it’s gone,
The brilliance we held on to
As if it would last forever,
It’s gone,
Not as a fading
But a brilliant explosion that measures up to the luminescence of its blindingly bright short life,
Gone,
Leaving only the dust of what could have been,
And shrapnel of memory.
Missing Home
As much as I find formation,
In the Ivory tower that surrounds me,
There is something missing,
Begging for completion in this equation,
It is a longing for familiar arms and body
For me to embrace,
And the comfort of love in the flesh
Made closer to my being,
It is a need for the very souls that drive me in my seeking,
It is an irony of needing to leave to find what is most needed
Is what was left behind,
I knew this already,
But it is the felt notion that brings this to brightest light,
In missing home.
Human Presence
The cityscape is lush,
With barreling trees of iron and concrete,
Glass luminescent with the reflection
Of clouds and sun’s rays,
I have grown accustomed to a rural home,
Where flora and fauna remain ever in view,
But here I am reminded of a different kind of beauty,
The mark of the natural still present,
But in the natural view of human presence,
human craft,
Not removed from the natural world,
But planted in it,
Grown out of it.
Who am I to Write a Sermon?
Who am I to write a sermon?
I silently ask myself,
As I settle into my being,
And wonder,
I wonder and it extends to my hand,
Travels down through my fingers,
That now itch with a need to write,
To write words of hope,
Peace,
Contemplation,
Resilience,
Awe,
Transcendence,
And then
Breathless with completion,
I stare down at my work in wonder,
Who am I to write a sermon?
To the Wonder
To the light I go,
Drawn like a sapling to it,
The wonder is known.
She of Letters 