Nice and neat,
Goes the suit,
Here I AM,
Imperfect but proud,
Wearing the unwillingness of the serpent,
I radiate resistance,
Through a smile which belies the truth.
Or am I?
Is it the unacceptance of others,
My misunderstood life?
Which makes them feel I am the unteam player.
Whispers off stage … “Which I am.”
The world of this dark cloud speaks feelings normally saved for an analyst’s couch.
The sadness is overwhelming,
And time seems to be still as the dead air which surrounds,
This almost broken heart.
The voice from the peanut gallery shouts,
“Every cloud has a silver lining”
Written by Pollyanna on an optimistic day,
My heart thuds with a hard landing response.
Sparks of anger fizzle out,
As I move back into the darkness.
As I do.
Until a veil is lifted,
From these scaly eyes,
Revealing a silent presence from within.
Which is with me always*.
What was I thinking?
How can I feel this so deeply?
Aren’t we supposed to ration love?
Only to give it to those really close?
So they can know I love them more?
Love is unlimited.
There is no limit.
To the amount.
Who to give it to.
And how I feel about it.
So, worry not about soulmates.
Even if there to many,
And you find yourself in love with …
Well. Everyone to some extent.
And some who cannot do anything but give.
Because it is The Way.
Love does not need an agenda,
A reason even.
For we are all immersed in an ocean of love,
If only we try to stop swimming ashore,
And trust in outcomes.
For we cannot drown in a sea of love.
We will only feel its warmth and connectedness.
For a lifetime lived:
Dutifully (to us, not me)
Always facing me
The first washing of the day, before my shower;
Is a tentative wash, knowing more water will be flowing shortly,
Over gray hair, body and a general waking up.
Here, hands are the tool, not the target.
Then later, not just before and after meals,
Comes the real handwashing.
Sanjay tells us how to wash like a surgeon,
To do the front and the backs,
As a child needs instruction for teeth.
We never knew how to really wash them.
Then, handwashing, proper handwashing that is, needs patience.
Not here the symbolism of Pilate,
Or its many metaphors.
But a real handwashing,
Like our hands are clean.
Devoid of germs,
Ready to touch something,
If only disposable gloves,
We are ready to … keep our distance.
This washing is personal,
We only wash our child’s hands,
Not each others,
And yet …
This timed wash of two birthday songs,
Or One Our Father,
Is a member of an orchestra,
One playing a song of safety,
A willingness of a heart.
This song is devoid of color, country or creed.
A song which all humanity plays,
Every time a faucet is turned,
So begins a melody of holiness and care.