- This page contains some of the works of which I am most
proud. Lessons in Life may be easily won, but often are
unrecognized. I have learned that there is a lesson in every
event, good or bad, and one's life is changed (for good or bad)
with every choice; only retrospect will determine whether we
did the "right" thing in a particular situation and time. For
myself, I recognize that I have made many poor choices, but I
have also learned unique lessons as a result. Looking back, I
would not change most of those choices, because they have led
me to the place I am now, and will influence the direction of
future journeys.
Gilded by Moonlight, I walked alone
On a beaten path many before me had known.
A heavenly audience watched as I trod,
And I pondered a vision: How odd...
is this figure I see--a mere silhouette--
in lunar bliss fluttering in a pirouette:
dancing in darkness, shrouded by Night,
with only Moon as a silv'ry spotlight;
leaping and whirling, and careless to me,
and somewhere far off, a faint melody--
a song that could calm the most restless of seas--
of fairies' harps crooning from the tops of the trees.
But who, on this eve, is so carefree and gay
to resemble my self in an earlier day?
So light on the earth, as my heart once had been,
and briefly, a vast hollow was filled within.
Then I watched as the figure stooped to a bow
to become suddenly me, but as I am now,
and wept bitter tears of regret and disdain;
then I suddenly wished she could dance once again.
I cried, "Please dance, Spirit! Be again as you were!"
But she slumped in her place and would not stir.
I knew then in my heart the dance truly was ended--
over her blithe soul and mine a shadow-curtain descended.
I lifted my face, and to the heavens I cried,
"What curse has been cast that this spirit has died?
And that I find myself cold and empty inside
with an obsolete heart that joy once occupied?"
Then my dream was over, with no answer suggested,
Tho' I understand now that by this dream I was vested;
Thus, I can relay one great lesson I've learned:
That Life's beauty and mirth are not given, but earned.
Original 1985
Edits 6Dec95
24Oct96
4Apr98
This happiness is wind,
and I am winged whimsy;
My will is giv'n to soaring,
and every gust befriends me.
This lofty dream I foster,
by Hope illuminated,
Is folly for the starving heart
or spirit that is sated.
For my heart is yet ravenous--
my hunger fed in questing--
And tho’ it be filled to gluttony,
there is no threat of cresting.
On Wonder's waft I glide,
not dissuaded by resistance;
For is accomplishment of flight
measured in altitude or distance?
Completed 11Jan97
(Begun on 1Aug96, Nursing School Graduation Day)
The sculptor sighed, disheartened-
'though surrounded by his work and art-
For he'd yet to spawn the masterpiece
that surely would sate his thirsting heart.
In reveries, he toiled and mused,
envisioning the fruit of his grandest intent.
He yearned to create this one great work:
to his life, a lasting monument.
So he sought and ventured far and long
to find a worthy stone
From which to chisel the useless hull
and, finally, his masterpiece hone.
Alas, came the day the sculptor'd awaited,
when the finest of granite blocks he beheld,
And he eagerly plotted to reveal his life's-work
which, surely, in this crag's center dwelled.
Day after day he labored with passion
scrupulous, as never he'd been before;
Year after year he devoted to finding
the rendering hidden within this stone's core.
Ever-mindful of his ultimate scheme,
meticulously carving and fervently paring,
To mold this plain rock to a splendid creation
he kept steadily chiseling, reforming and wearing.
He was loathe to accept that his work could be done
for with each chip removed, a new form emerged,
So he neglected all but this single task
and into his obsession became submerged.
His convictions propelling, he labored, unceasing,
until upon his final day-
When he saw the essence of his masterpiece
there, in the rubble, lay.
3April99
Edit 26May99
- Singularity
All around you is Life,
Pouring down in heavy torrents
Like so many gales
Which, in days pass'd,
Surely traveled
many unanchored sailors
to the placid depths
of wat'ry reality.
And yet, into the puddles,
you playfully jump.
Why, you've soaked your britches
clear through!
And you stand there,
dripping with defiance,
drenched in disregard.
Galosh'd figures
scurry purposefully
around the tiny lakes
by which you linger,
searching in the murky mirrors
for a familiar reflection.
With a finger's whim,
the discovered image
Is transformed
into countless ripples
that subtly recreate
the pool's design.
With childlike abandon,
you giggle
as you skip
through illusion's narrow alleys.
All around you,
caricatures of responsibility
dutifully play out
meaningless acts of conformity
mediocrity
mimicry.
THEY always stay on the sidewalk.
THEY always carry umbrellas.
THEY don't waste time gazing into
puddles.
Why should they?
If they waited for the clouds
to dissipate,
they would only see themselves.
27Nov95
I have dedicated this poem to Robyn Bell,
a true friend and free spirit. We are alike
in so many ways, and I am grateful for
that part of her essence that is a part of me.
- Subculture
On Wisdom's trail, I've not far journeyed,
and many stones remain unturned;
Yet priceless value I would assign
to lessons meager I have learned.
I once feared scorn and relegation
from those whose blessings I humbly sought,
But when at last I chose my own road
their judgments mattered less--then not.
When I came to know the self I'd loathed,
uniqueness I had e'er forsaken,
I found gratitude for gifts of difference
and courage for the path I've taken.
I may not know where Life will take me--
or if my route is chosen or fated--
But whether I travel away or toward,
the way is better not dictated.
Jan96
For JElizabeth Sexson, a wise and generous friend,
who honored and inspired me with this title…
- Speedreading
We are like hopelessly distracted readers:
We read through the passages of our lives;
Each passing word is a potential friendship,
But we pass them be, overlook them,
not appreciating the true purpose
for which they are intended.
We pick out a few--familiar ones--
avoiding those we do not understand, and, often,
dwelling too long on those which are simple,
like I, me, they.
And, finishing the reading at the end of our lives,
we reflect upon the passages,
and realize we have not comprehended
anything we've read.
What we thought we had so well understood
now makes no sense.
So we try to go back, reread.
But someone has burned the book.
The pages are made ashes,
The hard-back cover, a fragile paper shell
...and what was the title?
1979
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