This is all I know.
First, you come.
Then, you go.
This is all.
I know.
I know.
It is all I can know.
Yet something shows
from hidden places
up and below.
Something unbidden
that hints at more, longer;
that feels better, stronger.
Where does more come from?
Where does more go?
Where did I come from?
Where shall I go?
It is never enough
this life that I know.
This is all?
Can this be so?
I want to know.
I want to know.
I want to know.
Filed under POETRY
After the heaving winds of Winter
blow across the face of Earth
dropping heavy rains in ceaseless floods,
the blazing winds of Summer force heat waves
upon plains and forests and fire up
an atmosphere of heat and drought.
The plants in my garden are anchored
beyond the sound of my pleading voice
begging them to live , if not for me,
then for every butterfly and bee
as if Earth might survive
by some miracle, as have I;
beyond cancer scares and chronic ME,
and fibromyalgia that brings me to my knees.
Yet, like Earth I continue to survive
and even thrive.
No future generations of my DNA
will I leave behind, but seeds
that blow on restless winds and bury their heads
in fertile soil across the garden I have spread,
and breed new life in a new garden
long after I am gone.
This may be my only immortality.
Or, perhaps there is more
in a place yet unseen but hoped for in my dreams,
built on faith and fed by love
Felt in such ecstasy of our union,
its solidarity a true communion
where we explore the truth that
we are not alone, anymore.
The whole world, not merely Earth
is ours to explore,
building hopeful memories to outlast
the fear of loneliness from the past.
Our loving connection gives such strength
even death cannot break the bonds
of love and life meant to survive an eternity.
We are in this together, you and I.
One thing I know for sure;
like the garden, our love will never die.
Holy Saturday is here.
The quietest day of the year.
The feel of the tomb presses near.
All whom we treasure most dear
tremble in solemn fear,
waiting uncertain, near tears,
for all to be made clear.
Filed under POETRY
Up and down the street
garbage cans line the curb
waiting for the garbage truck
and men to pick them up,
to clear the debris left
from those trying to stay alive,
and leave something behind
before they die.
Garbage cans on streets and alleys
are on public thoroughfares,
public vessels that can be opened wide
to anyone who cares to look inside
at trash that can disclose truths
hidden inside plastic bags of deceit
filled with their discarded
food containers, chicken bones,
greasy rags and purchase receipts.
All else goes onto compost piles,
or gets recycled into bins
for later pick-up, by different men,
in different trucks, on different days.
Is this how death works?
Are we trash to be decayed
until we become dust
picked up by interstellar winds
and returned to the stars
waiting to be consumed by black holes?
Or, are we picked up
by different trucks to be recycled
into new lives, like a glass bottle or shipping box
to be used anew in some new way?
Or do we become compost for a new garden
in a galaxy far-far-away where lovely flowers grow?
The truth is that no one knows.
So we build stories of future glories
as we place our selves by the curb
afraid to live and use up all we are.
We, imperfect people all,
too often place ourselves in the trash can
and simply wait to be picked up.
Filed under POETRY
Brazen bronze seedbeds
accosted by frozen brown bombs,
following an early frost,
when flowers freeze before
leaves and people fall,
their lively colors trapped
still vibrant and glowing,
as if they are not dead after all.
Broken boards and barren stalls
line the barns left as fallow
as the fields where bombs have fallen.
Images so serene and spare
burn the sockets in despair
that life so precious
no longer has a place
among this not-so-human race.
The season of death and dying
has descended and too many dreams
have been up-ended.
Bursts of air throw up clods of dirt
upon the nations of the earth
burying every sound of mirth
amidst the screams of lasting horror.
And yet we know that Spring will come
after this winter of solemn sorrow.
The best we can do is hope
for a better tomorrow.
So it has ever been
and hopefully,
so it shall be
if only we
can survive
the winter
and war’s demise.
Filed under POETRY
Sunshine pours through the window,
flows over the kitchen sink
and onto the table where I write
with fleeting glimpses of loved ones
passing through from day to night.
Gone forever.
Perhaps never
to be seen again.
Death is certain.
Eternity is not.
God could not have written
a better plot.
Filed under POETRY
“Shot.”
“Mom shot.”
“Dad shot.”
Dad lying atop
my tiny body.
Dad blocked
the shot
and the new word
death taught.
The new word
killed Mom.
Killed Dad.
Killed Family.
Killed us all.
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Repeat it with me
over and over and over.
Mom shot.
Dad shot.
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
words no two year old
should know.
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Shot,shot,shot,shot!
Shot.
Shot.
Shot.
Shot.
Filed under POETRY
We carry our load down the road.
What for? Where? Why?
After awhile, our feet simply move on their own.
No direction necessary for places unknown.
No reason necessary to carry
what is placed in our hands and across our backs.
Our only focus now is to stay on track.
We could not look back if we tried.
The load would shift and slide.
Past effort would all be wasted.
We tack on a smile only pasted
from memories of those we pass on our way.
We trudge on day after day.
Still the question lingers, “But, why?”
No religion, nor ideology, nor philosophy given
has truly answered that question. Curiosity riven.
We simply carry our loads.
Then, we die.
So then, why ask “Why”?
Filed under POETRY
The daffodils and I are fading.
Our tulip friends who bloomed later not far behind.
The bright colors once so gaily waving
in gentle sun now unwind
the cord which seemed to hold back
warmer days and nights; the cord which holds back time.
Clouds continue to place a sack
over Sun’s greater insights of reason and rhyme,
sleeping still too many hours
to bring the garden fully back
to life.
What is it in the soul that yearns
for Spring in Winter and Summer in Spring?
How to live in the moment I’ve yet to learn.
Around and around the seasons I go,
seeking to learn just one more thing.
When I shall stop nobody knows.
Until then I shall dance and sing
among the flowers which in my garden grow.
Filed under POETRY
Years weigh down the lane I travel.
The dust has settled, as have I.
Even the air seems dense and pale,
too easy to inhale or exhale.
My pace must slow,
each foot placed just so.
Should I fall the earth would feel
hard as glass.
We both would shatter.
Eyelids weighted by experience
of both grief and joy dim the view ahead
of this road I know
must end, sooner than I’d wager,
anyone would hope.
It grows quieter here.
My ears have dried with my tears
remembering long lost friends and family.
Crystals form within bright as stars
then shift from their moorings
as I walk, daring me to fall and jar
the brittleness of each new morning.
So, I slow. But still, I go.
Where? None of us really know.
which makes this journey
an adventure beyond this space,
an exploration of love and grace.
Filed under POETRY
annarino writes 