jimowenswrites

Reflections on Life, Leadership, Mindfulness, Change, and other Important Stuff

Month: October, 2018

November Tune

Winds gently blowing

cross oat covered dunes,

I hear the sweet sounds,

of her November tune;

The ocean still rocking,

Against the white shores,

The sea’s tide calling,

A song all the more;

A gentle babe crying,

this unfettered delight,

I listen in wonder,

Pricked ears in the night;

Bare feet keep padding

Across the boarded walk,

A strange symphony rising,

This whispering talk;

I strain in the darkness,

Make no better choice

Than awaiting the morrow,

And longing for her voice;

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She Gently Stirs

She gently stirs,
these bitter bits of chocolate sorrow;
this Alchemist of All,
mixing in cups of laughter,
spoonsful of a warm embrace,
and knowing nods of fellowship,
her hands busily,
divining sweet confections of comfort;

In this gathering of saints,
this unexpected communion,
she fills my plate
ladling it again and again
heaping it with joy upon joy,
liberally filling my crystal cup
now dripping
with her ruby-red elixir of hope;

And so I sit,
nibbling bits of gratitude
filling my belly,
abating my hunger
I sit,
And sip,
sating my thirst
I bask in the presence
of this holy order,
wondering what quests might follow.

When comes the harvest?

O, Mother,

when comes the harvest?

Thy blossoming babe,

foretelling promise,

tender shoots branching,

lush leaves hide thy sweet offering;

these tiny orbs morphing

in hues of green, yellow and red.

 

Speak to me, O Mother!

Tell me!

How long must I beseech thee?

Shall I pluck this fruit,

Let my tongue savor now thy gifts?

 

Dreams of her delight,

she taunts me.

Is thy bounty now born in full,

plump and ripe?

Has she now bathed long enough

in the white glare of midday,

been soothed by the soaking rains?

 

Shall I pick,

or shall I watch,

be robbed by fowl’s beak,

by the ravenous squirrel,

see her offering fall

only to spoil,

rotting,

crushed

by the passing boot?

 

When comes the harvest,

O, Mother?

How long must I wait?

One hour?

One day?

One week?

 

When comes the harvest?

Memories Echo

Memories echo

across the years.

Who are these boys,

now shedding tears?

 

Chasing dreams,

eager boys of yore,

no longer those,

we were before;

 

Crowned our heads,

some shocking white,

our faces etched,

our fading sight;

 

Gone our youth,

slow setting sun,

my grieving friend,

he comes undone;

 

A mournful dirge

the trumpet blows,

for that moment

no man knows;

 

Time will give

and take away,

Now wondering what

I should say;

 

Footprints fading,

by ocean’s tide,

from this storm,

we cannot hide;

 

We say hello.

with warm embrace

and then goodbye

A smiling face;

 

And turn about,

back to our chores,

no longer those,

we were before.

Hard is the clay

Hard is the clay

in which I plant,

hacking at the ochre,

my brow wet from labor

streams of sweat washing into

eyes that squint and burn, that strain and measure,

holding fast the spade that will not cut, this mattock that will not rend,

my palms red and angry, my fingers blistering with each jab at this unrelenting earth;

 

Shall I now rest,

from fruitless labor,

store away these fractured tools,

in darkness, let them gather dust and web,

strive again some other cooler day, when the autumn breeze

is cool on my face and the leaves crunch beneath my boot, shall I

release the burden of cultivating flower, bush and tree, abandon hope

of transforming this barren soil into some lush green oasis of peace and calm?

 

Hard is the clay,

in which I plant.

What can I say?

What can I say,

To this world undone,

And share some light,

For becoming one?

 

Is there some word,

That’s writ by me,

Would show the glimmer

Our humanity?

 

Could I beckon

Men black and white,

Drop their swords

And refuse to fight?

 

Would I presume,

To speak so clear,

That all these faiths,

Let go their fear?

 

Is there some way,

I could confess,

Some sacred truth,

I might suggest?

 

Would each man hear,

Each woman too,

There is so much

That’s left to do?

 

Shall I just sit,

Watch world afire,

That burns us all

In funeral pyre?

 

Or can I write,

Perhaps move them all

In some fresh verse

To stop the fall?

 

Can tribes unite,

And offer grace,

See the whole,

Not just the space?

Or are we chained,

To ourselves alone,

Keep building walls

Keep laying stones?

 

What hope is there,

For us to find,

Share this space

Is there still time?

 

Can we yet stop,

The madness great

That dooms our lives

That seals our fate?

 

What can I say,

To this world undone,

And share some light,

For becoming one?