The years carry on,
As my feet carry me away,
I see that I am no closer to the truth.
I've wandered far and near,
No idea what I'm supposed to do,
Maybe that is a truth.
The wise acquiesce,
Accepting the limits of knowledge,
Only knowing there is no truth.
As Yogi Berra said,
"If you don't know where you're going,
You'll end up someplace."
Ain't that some truth!
5-29-19
It's hard,
Sometimes,
Not to feel like a fraud,
When I consider who I am now,
And who I was.
People change,
Sometimes,
And I swear to God,
Some say it doesn't matter,
But I think it does.
Acceptance,
Sometimes,
Seems rather odd,
Our former lives won't allow,
Just because.
Forgiveness,
Sometimes,
Is giving myself a kindly nod,
A reminder to be who I am now,
Not who I was.
5-19-19
Thoughts and quips run through my head,
All the things I could have said,
Fleeting moments to write a rhyme,
And then, of course, there is no time...
5-17-19
Let it be known that moms,
The ones who put up with it all,
Who love unconditionally,
Give everything for their children,
Every day,
Always,
They are real mothers!
Moms,
They are the ones who take no shit!
The ones who kiss boo-boos,
The ones who ride you about grades,
And say no,
When yes is easier.
Moms surprise you when you are,
Theoretically,
Strictly as an example,
Sneaking out of the house on a Thursday.
Their disappointment is crushing,
Only because their love is endless,
And you are acting like an idiot!
They are the ones who care,
Guide,
Advise,
Overlook faults,
But encourage us to do better,
And always love,
Without question.
Like I said,
Real mothers!
They can break us with their tears,
Just as we break their hearts,
With inattention,
Inconsiderate actions,
Unkind words,
And stupid choices,
But they always stand,
Ever at the ready,
To give love,
Understanding,
And comfort,
Because that's what a mom does.
Moms do this,
Always.
While busy,
Or tired,
Or sick,
Or all three.
They worry and wonder.
They want only the best for their babies.
They stay up late,
Get up early,
Work all day,
Prepare meals and outfits,
Do unending chores,
Thanklessly.
And,
Just so we're clear,
A mom is not just a mother.
Giving birth is not a staked claim.
Trust me,
There's some real mothers out there!
They are moms too,
And sometimes dads,
Or aunts,
Or cousins,
Or friends and coworkers,
But they are moms,
Despite blood ties,
For they do the job,
Without being asked,
Because everyone needs a mom.
Moms make it their goal in life to be there,
To be the solace,
The embodiment of love.
Always.
Our moms,
They're real mothers!
5-12-19
Thursday's runs always suck!
Bearing the baggage of the week:
Insufficient sleep,
Too many heavy meals,
Or not enough,
And the fatigue of work-a-day existence.
This should be a day of prime running.
Afterall,
Mighty Thor himself has lent his name.
How auspicious and powerful,
But tragically,
It isn't so.
As they say,
"Thursday's child has far to go,"
And I,
Unfortunately,
Have miles to run before the sun will rise.
Feeling weak,
Dragging and worn,
I run in the nadir of the week.
Struggling,
Like Thor after battle with Jörmungandr,
When he took nine steps and died!
That's me,
Running,
On a Thursday.
5-9-19
There are love songs,
And love poems,
Love letters,
And love notes.
I've written them all,
To you,
Many times,
Over the course of our shared life,
All the time,
For you.
There are times when,
Truly,
I feel speechless,
As one does,
In the face of awe-inspiring joy and love.
What more can I say? I think,
What more can I express?
But then you do or say something,
And it makes my heart skip a beat,
Or I feel my soul smile,
In a way it never has before,
But as always,
I know,
That it is because of you.
And here again,
I attempt to give words,
However meek and worthless they are,
To my love,
For you.
4-27-19
Every city has it's moment,
A time,
A season,
When everything seems perfect,
Even,
(I imagine),
DeLand,
Or Flint,
Or Plano,
Or Youngstown,
Or...
Phoenix.
Surely,
There are cities,
Far and wide,
All across this world of ours,
That are in perpetual blossom,
No matter the season.
In these realms,
There is a constant beauty,
An element of magic,
Like an intoxicating perfume,
Powerful enough,
And indeed capable,
Of inducing enchantment,
Upon both citizens and visitors alike,
All the year long.
Spring is one of those seasons,
Maybe the season,
Here,
In the City of Trees,
Sacramento.
It is not a romantic city.
It is,
Perhaps,
Mildly pedestrian,
A former star now eclipsed,
A backwater,
The butt of a joke.
But to see her like this,
When spring has painted her,
Vibrantly,
Exhuberantly,
And little flower petals flutter to earth,
Every minute,
As if a rainbow has shattered overhead,
And her trees,
Her glorious trees,
Of myriad shape and size,
Are reaching for the sky in verdant bliss,
Leaves near full,
Washed clean by recent rains,
It is to see her perfectly.
It could be,
That I,
A recent-ish arrival,
Am still enamored by her.
It is likely that,
In all fairness,
I suffer from a puppy-love sort of view,
Which allows me to ignore her faults,
And blemishes,
Shambling transients,
And unsavory corners.
Nevertheless,
It is spring,
And this city is a marvel.
She rests tenuously,
Yet languidly,
On the banks of,
Not one,
But two rivers,
Both of which could easily,
Quickly,
Inundate her leafy streets,
And ancient architecture.
Yet,
It is spring,
And it is,
Frankly,
Easy to be swayed by her charms.
For beneath these broad branches,
In the cool shade of her namesake trees,
It is so enticing to walk,
And gawk,
And wish that you could call her home.
And then how wonderful,
When you remember that you do.
4-26-19
