Dangling from an invisible ceiling,

The cord has different strands,

Each designed for a purpose,

Independent, yet bound to the other’s company.

 

Gravity keeps it suspended straight,

Until the wind blows,

Or we grab it,

Sending it to another direction.

 

To show love or not, as is our wont.

 

With no patience, a tirade continues,

Gulfs of frustration and vicissitude flow from a small mouth,

Not designed to be this way in the world.

 

So, we listen and discern the needed action,

Carefully kayaking through the rapids which are visible to her,

But not to me.

 

When sailing seems like a better option.

 

Moving gently between flowers and locations,

With seeming abandon and randomness,

I can detect no pattern of logic,

Or intention.

 

Yet, this one has a weapon,

Which seems to fill the room with noise and fire,

Spitting maliciously from the itchy, hair-trigger,

Of a mind moving at speed.

 

Ducking and diving now,

To avoid an “accidental” shooting,

A mind tries to reflect on why, while avoid certain doom,

In a simultaneous moment.

 

Such is wont of freewill when weaponized,

By the agent provocateur.

 

One the tirade is over,

A thankfulness fills the room,

To be followed by reflection,

On what just happened.

 

“No Way Out” the sign at the end of the corridor,

Predicated by a long walk down in virtual darkness,

As the flashlight flickers its last breath,

Causing mine to increase.

 

An end which makes the heart race,

A mind freeze,

And poor limited alternatives flood in,

Make a ever-watching devil smile.

 

Yet, there is another path,

Obscured for now,

But to be considered,

To avoid drastic action.

 

Think With Your Heart.

 

Oft server silently,

With missing parts,

Deliberate omissions,

And false promises.

 

Betrayals come in all sizes,

From white lies to fraud,

And yet, they are surprisingly hard to detect.

 

Does an open heart leave me vulnerable?

Or is it my only true asset.

 

The potatoes in the drawer,

Sit quietly waiting for an owner’s return,

Reflecting on an idle, but well-lived youth;

Spent deep in Iowa earth,

Nurtured by an automated, yet loving father.

Yearning now, for sunny, rain-filled days,

When it seemed all we did was eat, drink and grow,

Our only worry … for the farmer’s well-being,

As we relied on him. Completely.

 

We were strong potatoes,

With few scars from our upbringing,

Situated in the Iowa dirt,

(a word which always belied its beauty).

Not proud, but certainly not ashamed,

More grateful for a simple, plentiful life,

Devoid of disturbance, peace-filled,

Unknowing of the future.

 

Now it seems, the new owner has forgotten.

Not us, but just forgotten.

Purchased at market with good intention,

To become a meal which sustains all;

We were attractive only a few weeks ago,

Ready to be cooked to perfection,

And become the supper always intended.

Not a sacred Eucharist, but the stuff of the everyday,

Created by God to sustain his great love,

Mankind and all that surrounds us.

 

Its late in life now,

We had started to shrivel and as Hollywood looks fade,

A darkness and waiting prevailed,

In the mind which forgot us,

This last time.

Soon it will be too late,

Baking now impossible, but perhaps home fries,

With a little editing.

 

The fading of our usefulness,

Reflects our new owner,

Who is now in his own drawer,

Seemingly closed,

Forgotten by a few,

And therefore, not used, or as useful,

As once was.

 

 

 

Alternate ending

 

 

Except to his creator.

 

The weaver does the work well.

Interconnecting colors, age and location,

Into a tapestry called “Together”

 

Only by seeing our part,

Touching those near us,

And seeing the others in the distant fabric,

A world away,

Can we feel our innermost.

 

The love imparted to us by the divine,

As today, we turn our will and freedom in recognition of the gift.

 

So, the divine in me is palpable,

As the intention of creation, incarnation and salvation merge in a moment of recognition,

One I will hold forever.

 

The divine presence in me.

 

Sometimes she is so close I cannot tell who it is,

Others I recognize her work a mile away.

What makes me see the goodness;

Or miss it completely,

In someone so close and familiar?

 

Then, I see it perfectly.

There, as always.

 

And all is revealed.