Clean Conscience

 

 

 

It is not an empty mansion.

It is space to thrive and grow,

elated being of hope hands in the elements

to feel at ease,

 and rest or work.

It is the expansion of the breath beyond its means,

the sense of being at home

 to stay wherever the heart sings;

 It is the sensation of being cradled by the Earth,

impelled by the sweetness of freedom.

Tenacity upholds the ideals of this endless walk toward belief and light,

toward the parts that make us whole.

It is the infinite inside,

the precious blessings that nobody can touch or steal

with hatred or resentment.

As courage buoys us up, we leave behind the dullness of disdain,

their vacuous intentions evaporate within the infinite within

because the infinite within is light,

and their anger is made of senseless hate and pain.

The forever tenderness that keeps the being alive

in its pure state of being keeps extricating itself 

from the prisons enemies dream to impose on us,

while a couple of monarch butterflies

 draw our attention toward a dance 

to the rhythm of Mother Nature’s kindness.

 

 

Our impassioned spirit swells in aspirations,

caring and fresh,

like a new flower facing the morning sun

with the upright ethos of belief.

The infinite within nourishes the self,

kindling the start of a new day with life.

 

 Note: this poem is about resilience and following one's conscience.

A Week of Delight

 

Gratitude smiles

 in eyes made of water,

hands made of clean air,

in the spirit of kindness,

we celebrate a week of delight.

 

The quality of air is good today… how long will it last?

Oppressive clouds of smoky air scared us a few days ago,

 now gratitude emerges under a new clear light:

We can fully grasp the value of this precious gift.

After a long persistent drought

a generous blanket of fresh rain finally embraced the body of Mother Earth

where our garden grows.

The plants perked up.

The garden beams in vibrant flowers.

The soil, content, revitalized the hearts of the creatures around us.

The bunnies played new games.

The toads must be dancing in their cool sanctuaries.

We celebrate a week of delight,

the kindness of a neighbor offering us homegrown food.

Tears of joy are not enough to explain it.

 

Gratitude smiles in eyes of water,

hands made of clean air,

kindness that abounds.

 

 

 

 

 

The Little Girl and the Bully

 

          

         The little girl knows her letters

          but she pretends she doesn't.

         The bully's charm captivated the teacher's world.

          He knows the numbers when the time is right,

          his smile is precise.

          He emulates his heroes

          and can play all the games that make him giggle.

         The little girl pretends she cannot see,

          the bully is taking chances,

         his boundaries lapse into his private land

         of gunshot images and scuffles.

        All he needs to do is to believe,

       so he is told,

       a fighter can always win.

       The little girl is hiding down somewhere,

        there are no shortcuts to heaven.

 Note: this poem was first published in 2014 by an online journal called Black Mirror Magazine. (This journal does not exist anymore.) This poem is included in the collection "She Opened the Cage". 

Photo by Dave Reed. Source: unsplash.com

Invitation

 

 Invited to our home,

you searched for weapons

and there were none.

Our empty house is not empty.

Light dreams float in the air,

the windows extend into the sky;

we can merge with the silhouettes of the trees,

dance to the rhythm of the seasons, 

craft new stars...

Note: this poem is a metaphor about incompatible friendships. It was included in the poetry collection "She Opened the Cage". 

 The photo by Matthew Smith was obtained from Unsplash.com.

The Price of Life

      

                                                    Photo by Aaron Burden (source: unsplash)

       What price do they assign to the songbird who cheers

       our spirit every morning?

       If everything has a number attached to it,

       then soon the Oxygen will have a tag as well,

       the grass, the clouds, the colors of the rainbow;

       the body is a commodity to the greedy eyes.

       One day they'll find that bills and bonds 

       do not amount to food and water.

       Each living being that vanished from the earth

       will make their dogma wobble

       and they will learn to grieve.

Note: this poem was originally published by the Social Justice Poetry Journal.

The Solitude of the Duck

 

Painting by Gail M.P

 

Come sit under the sun without your tendrils.

Appreciate the duck carving a path across the river

without expecting the sunshine to burn or purify her.

The lonely duck does not apologize for being alone,

and neither does she ask to be understood by you

nor thanked for her adamant grace.

After stumbling upon dirty rocks,

we can slide among the withered leaves, 

and like the duck,

we can swim again in the solitude of silence.

Nothing is cast off in the universe

for it survives in acts of transformation.

Where are you from?

                                                         Photo by Avery Cocozziello
  

                                        After a bad night's sleep

                                        her accent betrayed her,

                                         a suspicious look thrown at her

                                        along with the dreaded question.

                                      Her identity is a construction

                                               of bits and pieces,

                                      a mosaic of memories and dreams

                                      that perish inside a question mark.

                                      She belongs to an outsider's land

                                          sheltered by her imagination.

Note: this poem was initially published in 2014 in an online journal called Black Mirror Magazine.