Some poems

do not like

some days

just like

some days

do not like

some poems.

Flailing

in this ocean of discontent

I wait for patience

At the corner

of lost and despair,

turn right toward the stars,

then flap your arms upward.

Yes, you can fly.

Spring days are poems

written in green ink

across ready earth.

My enjoyment of these days

can be just as poetic

as I live the lines,

delighting in buds and sprouts,

purring at the sun’s tentative caress,

drinking the giddiness

of my own renewal.

How disconcerting

to have time

snatched away,

as if the hour

belongs somewhere

other than this day.

Thoughts of scarcity

tighten the vise of fear:

what if ideas are finite?

what if inspiration drains its last drop?

And then, that whispered word,

a  b  u  n  d  a  n  c  e,

loosens the grip,

releasing the heart

to swell into infinitude.

What if,

just like we do with rocks,

we could stuff our pockets

with clouds—

fluffy puffs, wispy threads,

shape-shifters,

brooding omens—

bringing them home

to sit on shelves

as souvenirs

of sky-savoring adventures,

talismans

to protect the imagination

from becoming too grounded.

Particles of disquiet,

stirred by frustration,

boredom, disappointment,

collide, storm

into the chaos

of restlessness.

I reach to grab them

like a cat trying

to capture shadows,

not trusting, not opening,

just frantic, scattered,

searching, striving,

stuck.

 

But wait…

what if,

with magic words

gratitude, patience,

awareness, acceptance,

I could turn

those particles

into radiant glitter,

freeing myself

from what might have been

a very bad day.

“Begin your practice by finding an empty mind…”

                                                                         –Keri Gaddis, yoga guide

 

Find it,

not create it

or try to will it into being.

Find it.

It’s there,

nestled between

logic and dreams,

hidden underneath

facts and fears.

Find it.

Turn on your flashlight,

plow through piles of thoughts,

corridors of want,

attics of memory.

Find it.

 

Then what?

Clutter it with ideas,

stack it high with plans?

No.

Walk right into that cool room

with cloud-colored walls,

just stand there for a while.

Practice being,

study stillness,

explore quiet.

Set yourself free

from yourself,

hover there.

dreefee n. a carefully selected relic of the day’s adventures; an amalgamation of “dream” and “feed”—food for dreams, you might say

–as described by Bill Bob Orviston in The River Why by David James Duncan

A gnarly poem of driftwood

found at the river this morning—

on a path I almost did not take—

a swirling and looping ballerina

stretching limbs of grace across my day.