Something so simple,
something so singularly connected to life,
something, as necessary, as the air we breathe.

How has it become so complicated?

How much to drink a day? Eight or more,
but never enough, from what I keep being told.

How it should be filtered?  So we convince
ourselves there is nothing but water in water.

Can you rinse water?

What portable container we should carry?  For
wherever we go, we cannot trust un-bonded sources.

Bottled, sparkling or tap at a restaurant,
ice, no ice, maybe a lemon?

Is it on the south pole of the moon
so we can somehow live in such a forbidden place?

Will there be enough when rivers run
dry, but melting glaciers flood coastal towns?

There is too much, and not enough at
the same time or so it seems.

Part of the recipe for coffee or tea, for without
which, how could we meet to discuss important matters?

Ah, but for me, I prefer to contemplate just a bit of water
in a tumbler of single-malted scotch and little else!

I’m writing a story hidden a long time ago.
Something the survivors had never told.
Something so heroic and yet so terrible
it was buried in the dust of another time.

The journey is arduous, requiring being
in the minds of others long since gone.
Feeling the fear, emotion and joys,
as well as, the deprivation and pain.

Sometimes called the Greatest
Generation, they were but ordinary
people put in impossible situations
bearing the weight of history and circumstance.

I know now why they buried all of it,
I know why they never told of the
horrors they wished to never relive;
and words could never be enough.

They believed no one would ever
again allow the rise of demigods
and the fatalism that led to the
inhumanity they witnessed.

They knew we couldn’t really
understand, and this is exactly
why their stories must be told
and retold, so we do understand.

Stories tell us who we are,
they tell us where we came from.
They are the memories of our
ancestors, and our coming legacy.

Stories define our victories
as well as  our failures.
They inform our character
and refine and define our beliefs.

Stories bring comfort to the
sorrowful and inspiration
and education to those
lost and searching.

Stories are what we must
tell ourselves to know who
we are.  So be good to yourself
and tell your best stories

and believe!

There are the lives we live
there are the lives we imagine
there are lives endured
there are lives notorious
there are lives which are legend

We all live somewhere in between.

From 2017,  I thought it was time to repost this poem.. Happy Dad’s Day to all father’s and grandfather’s. Those with us and those who cheer us on from above!

Dad’s Day

Fathers are a biological fact
Being Dad is an alive, loving act

My Dad is world best
I did boast to all the rest

My Dad taught me to swim
And to race with intent to win

My Dad taught me to play ball
And stand tall, never feel small

My Dad taught me to pray
And right from wrong, never gray

My Dad taught me to fix and repair
And to treat fortune with love and care

My Dad taught me how to fight
If I needed to protect what’s right

My Dad taught me humility and peace
When I needed to unclench my fists

My Dad taught me emotion is okay
With his stories he would tell all day

My Dad taught me the love of a good drink
As long as I took the time to savor and think

My Dad taught me a way to live
And to others, a legacy I hope to give

My Dad is Dad on Father’s Day
A loving act precious to me on each and every day

This week:

Happy Dad’s Day!

We’ve never been so connected
and yet we fail to communicate.

We have a lab test with pages of
results, telling us nothing of how we feel.

Caller ID provides our names,
but not who we are.

Polls and surveys ask our opinions,
and yet, leaders fail to understand us.

We have everything delivered
to our door, but there is always more.

AI is anticipating our wants,
but does it know our needs?

We’ve never had such information
at our fingers and yet so little wisdom.

Entertainment always at our beckoning,
may allow creativity to fade.

Are we leaning forward,
while appreciating the past?

Let us pray we not lose our humanity
and creativity in all this modernity.

May Flowers

If we are afield and dancing in a summer wind
We are a spirit of life and love alive within
Aspiring to be the object of desire
A part of life’s spiritual fire
Seeding the color of future days refrain
Feeding the story of life’s magical chain

But rather we are here,
in the vase as a glorious display
in a position of prominent array.

Mixed together by select and art, we’re here to show you
The beauty and spirit of our collective design and hue
We, of the world outside, are here inside
To bring you our beauty, glory and pride
To bring the joy of Mother Earth’s miracle today
As endearment in a vase on this, your Mother’s Day!

Happy Mother’s Day! 

Droughts end with a crash
of rain, and all storms spend
themselves against a rock of  land.

And this too, they say shall pass
This too shall expend its energy
against immovable immortal histories.

The people will choose an
appropriate end to the self-important,
to the agents of chaos and doom.

Just as nature will repair itself
and cleanse itself, and quench
itself as it must to restore order.

Everything returns as a full-circle,
as we forget the lessons once again,
bringing us back over and over again.

Consequently…
An early bird
dines, as a butterfly
vanishes.

Life Struggles…
Love streams
down rosy cheeks,
the river rumbles.

Appearance…
Still waters
belie turbulence
as a heart beats.

Other side of Midnight…
Stars twinkle
at night, finding
the other side.