A Sensitive Soul

I was born with a sensitive soul:

hurt covers me like icy water,

leaving me shaken and weak,

unable to walk, to function

as a human being.

 

I weep when others sniffle,

sob when some merely dab their eyes.

inside fires rage and water boils

with an intensity measured

by the Richter scale.

 

Pain strikes like an axe

falling hard on my furrowed brow,

bringing me to my knees

begging for the waves to pass

and peace to come.

 

While some quietly rage, I boil over,

spreading my doom and gloom

everywhere my eyes travel,

making my presence felt.

Discomforting others.

 

Harboring my hurts

like a mother sheltering her young

I cradle them, caress them,

nurture them until splinters grow into

full-blown trees.

 

Letting go is not easy.

I preach forgiveness, but find

clinging vines cover my heart, blocking

my arteries, cutting off oxygen,

inhibiting rationality.

 

The good news is that time heals.

Positive memories release pain

allowing stories to cry away the hurts.

New days begin with hope

for those like me, born with

a sensitive soul.

 

 

A Simple Request

Wishes wasted on what-nots and

Wing-dings wear away in time,

While fabulous fantasies of futures

filled with wondrous windows of

opportunities allow for nothing

but disappointments.

 

Instead innocence insulates believers,

inspiring individuals to dream devilish

dances, daydreams of defiance, dramatic

challenges coursing through lives

unbroken, undefiled by demons of despair,

hearts healed and whole withstanding

weather-related attacks against

conformity.

 

Dream on, dreamers.  Dance with the stars,

sending sparks spiraling through the universe,

understandably lighting lustrous lives

leavened by luminous love,

spirited souls searching for something

of substance, something to shatter

defamations and destroy doubters.

 

Give me guidance, goodness, graciousness,

generosity that I may share my successes, spreading

goodwill and good cheer whenever my tired feet tread.

Help hinder the disbelievers, doubters, nay-sayers,

never noticing nothing that threatens to toss around

their firmly held convictions, no matter how mundane,

how mutinous.

 

Grant me the ability to appease, appreciate, applaud

those whose talents top mine, to see the dedication

and hard work woven into each wondrously crafted

creation, recognizing remarkable determination to succeed.

Allow me to march with those who mark places,

who work with the angels, who weave satisfying stories

and craft perfect poems, earning the everlasting

satisfaction of success.

 

These things I ask.

 

 

The Coming of Spring

Rain bounces off the sidewalk

creating a gentle song of

luscious delights waiting.

A chorus of beautiful occurrences.

The coming of spring.

 

Air, wiped clean by an eraser,

sparkles with early morning smells.

Sings of healthy exercise.

Fills eager lungs with crisp delights.

Invites all creatures to rejoice.

 

Flora puts on her greenest gowns

and flaunts about the world.

Dances with the whirling wind.

Changes into multicolored coats.

Brilliant spectacle of delights.

 

Earth rejoices with the rising sun.

Hues of gold wash clean the sky,

settling on the ground

light as butterflies; busy as bees.

The soil enriches, and life abounds.

 

Sounds of liberation fill the daytime

Giggles and shouts of joyful youth

sprung from the confines of house.

Radiantly alive; screaming happiness.

Celebrate another season of growth.

 

Sunset brings contentment,

carried on the wings of deepening color.

Lighting the sky in a show of power.

Reminding all life that another day awaits,

in the coming of spring.

   A Mother’s Duties

What does a mother do when she realizes

that her child will never witness a golden sunset

or the glory of the sun peaking over mountains

to greet the new day, nor will he stand,

slack-jawed, as a jet leaves a smoke

trail across a deep blue sky, or point,

mesmerized as a yellow-stripped bumble bee

frolics from flower to flower?

 

She hugs her son close to her breast and tells

him how intensely he is loved as she opens

his senses to the world.

 

What can a mother do when she knows that

her son can barely pick out her smiling face

from the fuzzy world that fills his view,

or the brightly colored toys dangling seductively

overhead, nor the radiant smiles of his brother

and sisters as they greet him in the morning?

 

She uses words to describe the world, guides

his tiny fingers as he explores through touch,

those things that others experience with eyes,

and she tells him how intensely he is loved.

 

What should a mother do when her son is ready

to crawl, knowing that he will never see the

obstacles in his way until it is too late, or when

he takes that first tentative step and crashes right

into the pointed edge of the piano bench, or when

he wants to go outside and play like his siblings,

but the world is too dangerous?

 

She allows him to fall, just as she did the sighted

ones, for by stumbling he learns to conquer whatever

obstacles jump up to block his progress.

 

More than anything, a mother offers unbridled love.

That’s what a mother does.

Obituary

You never learned to sit on my finger

Or call my name

Or say hello

But you sang to me

Every morning, greeting me

As I tended to your needs.

During our dinner, you sat where you

Could spy on me,

Blinking your black-rimmed eyes

And flapping your wings.

You loved to fly

So when I cleaned your cage

You zipped out,

Flew high as you could

And from that perch,

Watched every move I made.

When  I finished, leaving behind

A millet spray as treat,

You were often the first to arrive.

You never let me touch you until this morning

When I respectfully removed

Your body.

I know that I took

Excellent care of you,

And that you were getting old

For a love bird,

But even so, your death was a shock.

I will miss you, Rolo.

 

 

Child’s Play

Easy, breezy, light and freezy

squeezy, sleazy, sometimes squeaky

Fluttery, buttery, I’m not nuttery

Cattery, splattery, but no flattery

Speedily, bleedily, just not greedily

Eerily, blearily, eyes are tearily

Quakery, shakery, give me cakery

Flakery, bakery, do not takery

Snuggle me, bungle me, don’t tungle me

Spangle me, dangle me, please jangle me

Laughy, gaffy, just plain daffy

Play with words every dayfy

 

I Yearn to be Seen

I am the sole of your shoe,

the dirt that you spit upon,

and the excrement of fish

that sinks into the silt

quickly becoming invisible.

 

I am the one who sits in the

last seat, in the last row,

who never says a word, or joins

a group, or makes any sound,

trying to be invisible.

 

I am the one that you never see,

even when you brush against

my back or shoulder in a crowd,

the one that you never grace with

a smile, for I am invisible.

 

I yearn to have a friend of my own,

someone who shares secrets with me,

holds my hand, carries my books,

asks for my phone number, so that

I will no longer be invisible.

 

I am tired of sitting alone, day after day,

munching on my cardboard lunch

while others around me joke and speak

of adventures of which I will never know,

for I remain invisible.

 

I ask for your attention, your time,

which you so willingly give to your

chosen few, the “in crowd,” those that

raise your status, your time card, but

not me, for I am invisible.

 

I beg you to stop just once and ask

my name, to hold the door and let me

enter first, to invite me to join your group

for lunch, or to be my partner, to wipe away

my cloak of invisibility

 

so that I may be seen for who I am,

a child of God

a blessed soul

a friend in waiting