I’m done in. So tired.
Yet still I take on more.
Can’t say no to needy souls.
Leaving me broken.
Shamed, emotionally sore.
My life, I’m afraid, can’t unfold.
The pattern of stars in the sky above my head –
as I lie on my patio chairs, feeling the evening breeze –
is scattered and twinkly,
but not distinct.
I ask them for an answer.
The lights from planes on their way to
destinations far and wide, flicker
and flirt with the stars,
evidence that another flight took off OK.
I need to know my purpose, why I’m here,
and why I keep messing up my life.
I look to the stars for an answer.
What seems to be a plane
is a star that shines bright,
that is having its moment
in the firmament.
I pray for an answer.
I look away, look back,
The stars in my night sky,
above my patio,
into the shape of a heart.
My heart that I must follow.
I tried to tend it, but nature overwhelmed my efforts
What’s the point of even trying
with all that withering around me.
Yes, take the leaves and petals, leave the ground free and clean
as I want to face life, not death.
All the flowers are gone, and I want them back
No, you can’t take their smell away from me
and I’m not sure about your odour of jasmine.
If it’s meant to be the call of my soul
then I’ll wait for the wind to blow it in.
This is an upside-down take on original poem The Wind, One Brilliant Day, by Antonio Machado
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
‘In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.’
‘I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.’
‘Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.’
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’
It’s the quality and direction of light that tells me
of presence, of a beam, of something greater than me.
Like torchlight from an invisible source,
it pools between thick leaves, through autumn cloud,
illuminating the darkest part of my garden.
The new-grown laurels have taken root,
wildly, greenly, not caring they’re uneven, mismatched.
They huddle around the scraggy old wooden bench
with its rectangle feet set firmly in the shingle:
a bench with a view, that leaves you with a sore behind.
The cheeky red berries shine crimson in the sunshine of youth
amidst the demure and dappled undergrowth,
their cherry fire and beaded little heart in full-bloom denial
of any future state of wither or decay.
An so shines the purity of that insistent beam of light.
my creative heart has been
beating but not seen,
patiently not known,
hoping, lying in wait
that one day, like this,
I would notice its pulse
and take heed of its sounds
listen to its beat,
see all its signs,
act on its guidance.
Create, at last,
what makes it sing.
A full-hearted swing
at life’s infinite joy.
(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/cuteimage)
You don’t get to blow out my flame
when you huff and you puff.
You don’t get to turn down my glow
when you’re feeling bored.
You don’t get to shame my spark
Into snuffing itself out.
You don’t get me to dim my light
so yours can shine brighter.