#contemplativepoetry — Public Fediverse posts

Worry Wart

The troubles of this passing day
weigh heavy on my head,
until I join the hollow-eyed,
the weary walking dead;
I stumble through the crumbling streets
where nameless fears are bred,
consumed by temoral things
and this mortal dread.

O, that this wart of worry
might be lifted from my head,
this small, persistent torment
on which my fears are fed;
that I might cease rehearsing
each bitter word unsaid,
and stop imagining sorrows
still waiting up ahead.

O, let me quit resisting
the road where I am led,
and trust the ground beneath me
though shadows o'er me spread,
for life is more than trembling
before the things I dread—
perhaps the path I fear to walk
leads to trust instead.

August 8, 2015 (exp. 2026)

Stumbling Block

It seems I have always been stumbling, tripping over the unintended in a fog of wandering wonder.

The mist has been ever around me, my cloud by day. I am enveloped by mystery.

You do indeed love to surprise me, O God;

two girls find shiny stones in a fountain and their joy chases away the despair at not finding a loved one,

the hospitality of friends lightens the weight upon a heavy chest from a returning to what was and the traveler can breathe again into what will be,

a mother’s words and the night breeze dries a daughter’s tears and she can smile at the deep thrum of a bullfrog,

lovers lie for a moment in the morning and the frustrations of yesterday fade into the quiet beginnings of another day.

It is time then.

I rise up into the bone crackling morning, my body protesting, my spirit already stretching out along the places I will see.

Inside, I find I am ready for more stumbling.

July 29, 2022

Stumbling Block

It seems I have always been stumbling, tripping over the unintended in a fog of wandering wonder.

The mist has been ever around me, my cloud by day. I am enveloped by mystery.

You do indeed love to surprise me, O God;

two girls find shiny stones in a fountain and their joy chases away the despair at not finding a loved one,

the hospitality of friends lightens the weight upon a heavy chest from a returning to what was and the traveler can breathe again into what will be,

a mother’s words and the night breeze dries a daughter’s tears and she can smile at the deep thrum of a bullfrog,

lovers lie for a moment in the morning and the frustrations of yesterday fade into the quiet beginnings of another day.

It is time then.

I rise up into the bone crackling morning, my body protesting, my spirit already stretching out along the places I will see.

Inside, I find I am ready for more stumbling.

July 29, 2022

The Sodden Astronomer

They say, Do not look at the stars,
or you will step into holes
and sink your shoes in mud.

So you can keep your eyes
fixed on the ground,
safe from puddles,
safe from falling,
and miss the lights
burning above in the dark—

except for a stolen glance,
a hurried sip of heaven.

Or you can throw
caution to the wind,
lift your thirsty face
to those bright jewels
sewn into black velvet,

and stumble on
with wet feet.

October 27, 1988 (edited June 2026)
Curridabat, Costa Rica

Part of the continuing Respectful American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

WildWords – Lord of the Flies

The flies come first
as rumor,

black letters of punctuation
in the cellar air,

small restless witnesses
to what I have not buried.

They find the hidden place
before I do,

the sweetness gone sour,
the secret body
given back to its elements.

I thought death
would announce itself
with trumpets,

or thunder,

or at least
a proper lament.

But here it is
in wings,

in the frantic scripture
of a thousand tiny bodies

writing circles
around the bulb.

Lord of the flies,
lord of the unclean corners,
lord of what ripens
when I refuse to look,

you do not create the death.

You only reveal it.

You rise from the wound
and make it audible.

You gather
where something has ended
and been left unnamed.

So I stand in the basement
with paper strips hanging
like sad yellow prayers,

with poison in the air,
with a broom in my hand,

and I know
this is not only about flies.

Something in me
has also gone untended.

Some old grief
has softened in the dark.

Some resentment
has been born in bitter warmth.

Some fear
has bred in the damp boxes
of the soul.

And the outer world,
faithful as a mirror,
begins to reflect what is within.

The dead thing calls forth wings.

The buried thing
becomes a cloud.

Lord above,
but Lord beneath even this,

teach me to descend
without disgust,

to find what has died,
to name it,
to remove it,

to open the window
where I can,

to let the clean wind
do its slow ministry.

For even the fly
is a witness,

even decay
is a kind of bell,

even infestation
can become annunciation

if it leads me
to the hidden corpse,

if it leads me
to the truth,

if it leads me
at last

to bury what is dead
and bless what still
wants to live.