Usually
before I go to bed
I know what I will wear
when morning comes.

But I am never sure
of how I’ll feel.

Sometimes I wish
that I could
lay those feelings out
and put them on
when another day
begins to brighten.

But dreams and other things
intrude upon my wishes
and  I can’t predict
my heart’s agenda
for tomorrow.

It is a shaft stuck into the ground –
planted by  the only nearby tree.
The shaft has  several arms that extend
in a “praise the Lord” fashion.
On the arms are cups
designed to  catch the wind
and as they do those arms twirl.

On a breezy day
their motions mesmerize an old man
who sits back comfortably
and sips a drink with a little zip.
He can sit there for a long time
and think about inconsequential things
as he watches those raised arms
go round and round and round –
sometimes watching ‘til the sun goes down.

When I entered
the Assisted Living area
to read a few lines of poetry
the first woman I met rose
and thoroughly embraced me
telling me she believed in hugs.

I dared not tell her
that she had scoped out
the center of where
my shingle pain resides
but instead
thanked her for her overture.

The others I met
were less enthusiastic
and I was almost disappointed.

There was a time
not very long ago
when I took pleasure
in imagining folks
opening up some gifts
and finding work that I had made
and sent off to some craft shops.

Especially at Christmas
when I knew
the things that I had made
were scattered
all around our country
and were likely gift wrapped –
perhaps with bows adorning them.

Now that particular pleasure
is mostly gone
but I’m still able to pull it up
from my assorted memories
and smile a little.

Does someone read my lines
and fail to understand?

I know that I read lines
and find my comprehension taxed
while others read those lines
applauding as they do.

And they might scan my poems
and take a dim view  of my muse.

It’s hard for me to tell
just where I fit
within the panoply of words
that line so many pages.

I think that once I sought some praise
for my delineation’s
but I no longer seek to please one
other than myself.

A narrow strip –
a narrow stripe
of orange
stretched along
the east
and that is what I saw
as I began my walk
the other day.

It grew in length and breadth
with every step I took
and soon it lost its stripness
or its stripeness
and  became a mass of orange
that stole the show that morning.

Yes, just another day
began for me –
just another day.

As dawn approached
beyond the trees I saw
their tops were etched
against increasing light.

Were I to take a pencil
and bring the sky down
to where I could sketch it
as it met the tree tops

I’d make a line
so full of zigs and zags
you’d think
a little child had drawn it.

These were my thoughts
as I trudged along one morning
finding entertainment
in the east before it glowed.

The fog — so thick this morning
I choose to walk another time.

I fear that golf carts
might careen into my space
before I have  a chance to dodge.

Those carts are prevalent here.
Not all their drivers
are alert, it seems to me.

And not all the other vehicles
that chose to travel in the dawn
are equipped  with caution.

I doubt the roadside bombs
so prevalent in other places
will hinder my advances
but I think of them sometimes
when I walk across the road
now laden with excuses
to defer this morning’s venture.

With hand on ear
they walk into the grocery store .
With hand on ear
they walk into the bank.
With hand on  ear
they walk into the  beauty shop.

With hand on ear
they exit from the grocery store.
With hand on ear
they exit from the bank.
With hand on ear
they exit from the beauty shop.

I watch them come and go
with hand on ear .

I don’t know what they hear

with hand on ear.

It never used to be this way.

When
I saw the moon
hanging on a cloud
as it set in the west
it looked like
it didn’t want to
to drop into the horizon.

I think it hung on
for fear of letting go.
And if it hesitated
I understand.