Self challenge-
talk less, listen more,
think smart, do more,
waste nothing, save more,
keep less, change more,
speak more truth, accept repercussions,
seek knowledge, denounce lies,
extend kindness, avoid fakery,
love unconditionally, live open handed,
challenge bias, demonstrate love,
teach by modeling, be the change.
By Kelly Waterbury
The sun this morning
Swathes me like a thousand poems
Beams of light and iron
Bless uncountable poets
writing revelation
from where we stand.
Grant us illusions
that reveal reality
and the audience of angels.
Lead us to the prism
where light is broken
into rainbows.
don’t let perception
rule in your heart
hold on to the truth:
you are a unique feature
of the universe–forging a
path through spacetime
entirely your own.
no one can replace you–
your heart and soul are
on an electromagnetic journey and
reveal, through your poetry
and through your love,
a universe entirely your own
yes, you are alone
some am i
so are we all
because no one can
occupy our position
in spacetime with us
but don’t buy the lie
that this means you don’t matter
ignore scale–while you may feel small
compared to a galaxy, you are like a galaxy to
a quark
do not judge the value of your unique voice
on the size of the “splash” you imagine
you make–or do not make–in the
Great Pool
even a ripple in the water carries
across the surface
what was not there
before
why write?
because you have something to say
and we need to hear
That afternoon by the pool
It all started making sense
The blue sky the white clouds
Passing and the precious pink
That appeared like a gift
The sun had secretly carried
All day to give to us now
(meditation after reading Rilke)
At fourteen i left home
for a catholic seminary,
in pre-dawn meditation
i learned to sleep with my eyes
open and a book in my hand
Fifty-nine years later
i see death’s slow simmer
in the tremor of the book
i hold as i sit in the bee buzz
and bird song of a farm house
kitchen…is there something
left for me to become…could it
be the oriole’s song i hear
in the hackberry tree
I walk to base of the old hag
with all her drooping branches
and bitter fruit, pick up a stone
…become that stone, become the tree,
become the bird and fly
up above the top of the tree
Looking down at the old crone
she appears in all her crust,
and even in the sound of her crumble
i hear the voices of children
Runs forefinger and thumb
through her hair attempting
to straighten & smooth.
Mesh wire table holds
her third to-go cup,
each with less lipstick stains
than the last. Not going home,
just sitting in the napalm afterburn.
His feet slide back, lips slurping
the spillage from the red solo cup.
Unabashed he yells across
the ping pong table
“Slap my butt & shorten my jorts!”
He’ll go home when they carry him.
In the funky shotgun
downtowner built for two
a finicky calico re-arranges
the crochet blanket & kneads the couch.
Triangle head on paws
she watches wrens weave
a nest in the gutter.
( Note from daughter in law, Pam Poe.)
When your mom saves
The first apron you ever made
You find it in her bedroom drawer . . .
So ya cook Dad’s supper wearing it
Knowing mom still watches over us.
in my parents’ house without them here,
Mom, eight years gone, Dad ambling toward her
down the long hall of Assisted Living, and me,
their only, tasked with sorting through 66 years
of housekeeping.
Every drawer, every shelf yells stay away, we’re
happy here, and where will you take us when you
pull us out? Those smiling young faces in all the
pictures, the dishes, the dishes, who will they feed?
The table’s too big.
I crank open the windows to birdsong, the young
rabbit nibbling clover, innocent in the grass, recall
the crack of the bat on whiffle ball, the tire swing,
swing set, blue bike still hanging upside down in
the garage waiting, for what?
It’s a terrible job, auction date looming when
strangers will come, bid and haul their lives away,
or all the things I cannot save. And what can I save?
Voices raised around the piano as my mother played.
Corn fresh from the garden,
dripping butter.
