#contemplativepoetry — Public Fediverse posts

Pace

Often I find myself stuck
between the slow
and the fast,
fitting into neither,
stumbling,
never finding
a comfortable
pace.

I am impatient 
with those ahead of me, 
whose slow progress 
impedes my attempts 
to reach my destination.

I am angry at those 
pushing me from behind, 
so concerned with 
reaching their goal 
that I am just another 
obstacle in their way.

I must remember 
that at times I have 
been both.

It is the engine within, 
not the speed of those 
I encounter on the road, 
that drives me to anger 
and impatience.

O Divine Driver,
 Grant that I might have a
 more compassionate
 awareness on this
 journey.

August 2, 2015

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

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Bullet the Blue Sky*

I went outside 
to watch the 
stars.

It is as if 
all the bullets 
from the war 
have been fired 
into the sky,
tearing holes 
in the black velvet 
for a little bit 
of heaven 
to shine 
through.

Every once 
in a while 
the fabric rips 
as a shooting star 
races across 
the sky,
but then 
it quickly 
mends 
itself.

November 2, 1988
La Esperanza, Nicaragua

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

*From the U2 song of the same title