Posts for June 5, 2025 (page 6)

The food arrived
far later than I had hoped.
The driver’s eyes,
lacking warmth,
brushed past mine
as if I were a burden.
No smile.
No “thank you.”
No farewell.
Just silence
and departure.

Still,
I’ll tip at least 20%.

The waitress forgot my drink.
Twice.
Frustration steamed from her skin.
Each step, obligation.
Not welcome.
Cold fries,
no silverware,
and a gaze that said,
“You’re the problem.”

And yet,
I’ll still tip at least 20%.

A sour tone.
A wrong order.
A weary face that never met mine.

Still–20%

Not for flawless service.
Not because I felt seen.

Here’s the reason:
I’ve lived behind that mask.
Carrying a stack of pizzas in one hand
and dragging my “interesting”  life in the other.
I’ve smiled through storms,
while drowning inside.

I’ve been given grace
when bitterness covered my hands.
I’ve been warmed
while offering cold.
Lifted, while feeling down.

The world spins,
not by precision,
by compassion.
Not by perfection,
by mercy.
It’s not performance
that sustains us,
it’s kindness
that makes no demand to be earned.

So if my 20%
can speak louder than judgment,
may it whisper this:

Love still shows up
when it doesn’t have to.
Kindness still counts
even when it’s inconvenient.
And grace
is the only tip
I can’t afford not to leave.

Imagine our collapse, the calamitous end, the shape of our rubble
the fault in our structure, the how did this happen? the sure signs of trouble.
Is it a weakening side that causes lean-to collision
or a central erosion bringing V-shaped submission?

I ask ’cause you were the one carrying doom on your tongue
folding the stories before first beams were strung.
You’re too nice, I’ll only going to ruin you.
The good man, archvillain to self, what is he to do?

So don’t blame me for pushing on the pillars–
this exhaustive decline that makes men into killers,
hoping to believe in any other reason
for foundational flaws than I’m a great person.

There are ways to get naked without intimate flair.
Bad timing? Need to heal? Secret side thing? I don’t much care
because I see a quiet desperation that should quake us to the core
when even the gentle men don’t want to be kind anymore.

                “And I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock
                I will build my church, and the gates of Hades
                will not overcome it.”
                                                        — Matthew 16:18

The rippling water is green abalone at the pier;
wild geese float without effort and fish break
the waves—as if it were not solid, as if it was
insubstantial, as if the Son of God did not walk
on its surface like the land.

I sit here, cross-legged and broken.  I think of you, Simon
Peter—the first to be called, the first to be given
the mystery of Christ, yet you sank
                                                                 and I, too,
                                                                                    am sinking. 
                                                                                                          I think of who you were
before that day when He came:  Simon, He has heard.  History holds
that you, James, and John, were all bold.  Simon, also meaning flat-nosed,
like a fighter, like a warrior, like the one carried by a storm
in your soul.
                        
                        Gifted with a voice that boomed, you led
with your heart—and with a tongue that surely matched.
First to proclaim the Messiah; first to deny him at the cross.
First to pray down promised Spirit.  First to raise a sword
at his betrayal.

                             When he named you Rock (or pebble, or gemstone),
He showed us His Grace.  He revealed the rock on which He’d build
the church—and it wasn’t you, it was never you.  It was
                                                                                                      that Faith
with which you heard His name.  What a high! but then the low
when your words gained you rebuke:  You do not have in mind
the concerns of God, but merely human.  I can imagine the pain
you felt, your first love comparing you to the enemy. 

                                                                                                 Or when your brother,
once Saul (a name singing dignity), now Paul (meaning humility), called you
out breaking unity—called your actions the actions of a hypocrite.

Prized fighter, warrior, fisherman; well-intentioned, passionate—
yet fallen—man.  You knew your Lord yet you fought Him
washing your feet; but when taught, asked for more:
Head and hands.

                                Nothing halfway.  Nothing in part.  You’d be

the bridge between Gentile and Jew.  And when they came
to put you to death, you bid them more—you bid them
do it upside down.                              

                                 Nothing halfway.  Nothing in part.

Ye of such determination; ye of so little faith.

Would you walk this green abalone
with me now, you Gemstone,
you Rock?

Would you drift with the geese?
Or would you bid me fly
in fear, in my doubt
from the wind?

We are speaking.
                                           We are action.
We are wanting
                                   to be seen by Love. 

We are both
                        broken
                                      and seeking
a true
            name.

Some text directly from and inspired by:
“The Hobbit”, J.R.R. Tolkien, Chapter 12 Inside Information, pg 190
also inspired by: Samar Jade’s Poem for LexPoMo: “In the Style of Glenis Redmond”

Riddling-talk with the dragon, Smaug
This is how you talk to dragons

“Well, thief!
I smell you and I feel your air
I hear your breath
Come along!
Help yourself again
There is plenty and to spare!”

No thank you, O Smaug the Stupendous
I do not come for presents
gold alone didn’t bring me too
But only, just to have a look at you
to see if the tales ring true
of your magnificent hues

“Lovely titles,” sneered the dragon

“Those don’t sound very creditable,” the dragon scoffed

I am a friend to dog and cat, parakeet and cockatoo, hawk and crow.
I am Jackpot winner and scratch-off sinner
I am Disc Jockey and night-maker
I am Horse-girl and Mustang-Rider

“That’s better, but don’t let your imagination run away with you.” 

– Tolkien, J.R.R. The Hobbit. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1937.

Sweet tug,

I am letting you loose.

You do not win an award

for holding it all together.

No blue ribbon will replace

the badge of honor

you’ve made of your pain.

The world does not lighten

each time you lose sleep.

You have permission

to toss out the midnight oil,

extinguish the flame

burning at both ends.

Do not push through,

plow, hustle, or grind.

There is nothing

on that extra mile that minds you.

You’re allowed to rest,

to stop,

to stay.

Don’t keep treading water.

You are not meant to hunker down

and weather the storm.

Take your shoes off.

Make yourself at home.

The first time I fell asleep on a beach 

Merrily we went along,
ignoring admonitions,
oblivious to glares
and stares that caught us
unawares as we took
whatever we wanted
whenever we wanted it.

Then the piper came
and demanded payment.
We have found him
to be unrelenting
and humorless.
It’s a real bummer.

They were such small 
words you spoke to me,
just a mild rebuke.
But when they crossed the
room to where I stood
they hit so hard
they stunned me,
taking my breath away.

It’s hard to fight small words.
I want to rise, to shout,
to defend myself.
But that will only give them
power, inflating them
into a worthy foe.
I feel foolish taking aim
at such small words.

I will not let you
belittle and define me
by such small words.
You may not see that I am
full of life and strength,
filled with talent and love.
You think I am worthy
of your small words.

You cannot confine
me within that image
dangling from a string.
I break free, redefine myself,
discarding the old skin
that could be wounded
by such small words,
grateful to be free.

An oversized wide knit cotton sweater
hangs by the door of her old cabin
snuggly tucked in the Kentucky woods.

The sweater, laguna blue, faded with
thread pulls, some bottom fringe frayed
where stiches eroded,

comforted her since teaching art
in Chicago, where its large pockets 
held markers, paint brushes and dreams.

It accompanied her on many journeys,
well into her silver years. She lost track
of its exact age or when she first stretched

her arms into its sleeves. Each time one of
her children suggest she trash the blue sweater
and offer to buy her a new one, she resists.

It is her peace when she drapes it around her
shoulders to make a quick run outside to fill
bird feeders or water flowers.

It is her warmth when she wears it all
buttoned up to go out into the chill and
scoop up kindling and cedar logs for the stove.

It is her memory of younger days
when she ties it around her waist to 
walk to the meadow and set up her easel.

It is her solace as she rolls it
into a pillow to rest her head while
dreaming of a lost lover.

She sits on the porch on a cool spring night,
the blue blankets her lap.  She rocks
to the song of the whippoorwill.