hope
the crossing…
walking
on
old wooden planks
well worn boards
resting
on a muddy
stream bed
shoes wet
with
dreams
but
can
planks
of
hope
hold the weight
of
tomorrow
roadkill and other aspirations…
tell me
what will happen
to
all the dreams
stranded
on the side
of
life’s road
tell me
will anyone
find them
gather them up
and
carry them
into
tomorrow
before breathing…
know that you are
that love is possible
know that dreams are more real
than life’s nightmares
now inhale the love of life
abilene paradox…
how has time
changed
you
what dreams
have
you forgotten
or
abandoned
leaving
empty spaces
in
your heart
and
mind
seen by some
as
a far away look
or
just plain emptiness
that
you
cannot explain
to
those who ask
is there something wrong
a question
rarely answered
in
truth
just the typical offering
of
empty platitudes
things are fine
nothing to worry about
couldn’t be better
or
some other
verbal detour
from
the truth
served up with a practiced smile
but
closing your eyes
you can see
that empty space
but
you decide
to
move on
into
the new day
without
what’s been missing
for
so long
no need to supersize…
the smallest wildflower
like the flickering of hope
proves life’s beautiful
new life…
fresh snow without prints
awaiting the first sleigh ride
and a child’s laughter
standing on shaky ground…
there’s
an unevenness
to
life
causing
our unsteady gait
as
we travel
through
our lifetime
oh
we can map out
the smallest details
but
nothing ever
goes as planned
the terrain
changes around us
as if
manipulated by some
unseen force
or
perhaps
random quakes
from
the earth
beneath us
the cause
really doesn’t matter
just
how one
regains
their footing
all the lonely people…
as if
things weren’t
bad enough
a pandemic
leaving
blank page
days
as
the daily fare
a forced diet
of
silence
it’s
not that
i
crave
wordy
desserts
piled high
with
nonsensical
phrases
of
sweet compliments
or
mundane platitudes
used
to
fill the empty void
of
uncomfortable social silence
no
what
i’m concerned about
are
the
mind locked people
sitting alone
well
stranded
at
home
with nothing more
than
netflix
or
appletv
as
their companion
as
entertaining
as
that may be
it isn’t
a substitute
for
feeling the pulse
of
another human
either
kinesthetically
or
metaphorically
through
their eyes
no
it’s
father mckenzie
writing words
of
a sermon
no one
will hear
nor
care
about
it’s
the sadness
of
forced solitude
where
even the start
of
the new day
offers
little
hope
formlessness…
like staring
at
stars
we seek
to
find
familiar patterns
of
understanding
for
the amorphous hate
residing
in the heart
of
this nation
we
conjure up
through
our incantations
of
the sacred words
we the people
the
mythical spirits
of
freedom
and
morality
only to hear
the despairing echo
of
our own voices
voices
resonating
in the emptiness
of
each day
yet we
continue
our
self-hypnotic chants
as if
the very words
can charge
the chaotic
into
a form
we can understand
and
thus change
but
like
the centuries
of
incurable believers
before
us
our invocations
are
all for naught
