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Until we can die to the past
and dream our own dreams,
we are held hostage
to demands and expectations
not our own.

Not to run away, but
to say, The past’s lessons
instruct, but do not ordain
a future—decree another’s will
must prevail.

Held hostage by demands
fueled by love and piety,
blood and expectation,
dutiful recompense for the gift
of having breath
and continuing to breathe.

To say "No," simply,
and walk a path not charted
by its distance or closeness
but by its honesty.

[First Draft]

Still hoping to meet my goal, which has now changed from writing a poem each day to writing a poem for each day in November. Things got a bit complicated for a while. That happens.

haiku

Nip, then jump back fast!

cocker spaniel and bulldog

getting acquainted

 

That leash is longer

than he thought. Too late now to

measure it again

Images

“Tiny Dancer”

Turning round and round
to the music of of Swan Lake…
there, in the mirror.

Too Late

“Too Late”

Too many years
between discovery and desire,
too many experiences, too new
and decades separate
experience from understanding.

And now, a half a century too late,
the head understands
what the heart
had tried in vain to grasp.

The prize? Too many years ago
was lost…long dead and buried,
gone.

“All Grown Up”

photos tucked away—
who is she, a floppy hat
and fish on her line?

fishonmyline

As wonderful as lunch may be,

it’s no time for visiting

about anything but food–

holidays remembered, recipes,

who was there and who, not.

 

A bit of shopping, though,

and then a stop for coffee

before home, and hours pass,

conversing of the most important

things of life, resolution to the problems

of the world, next year’s garden.

Together . . .

"Summer Songs"

The brush of air from
birds’ wings! Watch them glide to rest
and call to one another.
Always time to puff the wings
and look around to see what
singer sings the song.

November 4

A Haiku

Light of morning draws
lines of stark reality
over too bright dreams.

November 3

"Environmental Illness"

 

walking through the rooms

of my mind, turning out lights . . .

scents of modern life

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