When a man loves his wife he loves himself
I have heard it said
and I’ve read
of the interplay
of self love and love of another.
Can I love my brother, cherish my mother
if I do not accept myself?  
I’m still unclear which comes first or if this dilemma
circles and confounds
and will puzzle me forever.  

But I know with sureness when I love you
you soften and look at me with those big brown eyes
and sometimes I think I detect mist there
and when I run my fingers through your hair
I know your complexity and gentleness.
When I embrace you I know the fullness of your heart
that you loved me from the start
but even more now my precious one.

Maybe being a man this paradox of the circle of love
will never be mentally clear
but in my heart I know, my dear,
my love for you makes me me.

When I ask you for something
like ***, your listening ear, or your help
I admit my limits.

It is like prayer
which is a moment of giving up
some part of my potency
ceding a share of my energy and control
to a greater something or someone
I need.

Intimacy is an asking
a surrender of my image
my public in-control self
a holy moment of exposure.

It’s like the cat who in battle with another
turns over on its back
and bares its tender belly
yielding itself.

In snowy peaks
and gray valleys
grassy plains
and lower back pain
the falls
and rivers of grief
thorny branches of the bois d’arc tree
the womb
of a lily or a lady
pioneers and sinners
losers and winners
on the road
in the heart of home
what you imagine
and what you dream.

Across the alley
in the early light
you catch my eye first
you in the million white flowers
popping out of every branch
surging forth from each small tributary of your body.

You are the irrepressible life
that lay dormant
in your winter of contemplation
waiting there patiently through icy foggy days
earth cloaked in pregnant waiting clouds.

You are the tree of life this morning
beckoning me from my sleepy sluggish body
to join the chorus of your rejoicing
pricking the hidden hallelujah
coursing in the sea of cells
still alive and urging me
to union with you.

And so here I am
eyes wide open in the quiet dawning
of this small moment of eternity
imbibing your white glory
taking a tiny leap
into the cosmos awake in you
in this early day
of spring.

White Opulence

Days in the desolate plains
of my steady gray moods
have sprawled and engulfed
what I once called
and now barely remember
exuberance.

But walking along suburban alleys
I glance to my left and there it is –
amid brownish green leaves
shimmering with the clouded sun
are muscular white flourishes
which ****** me
back to my Louisiana childhood
and a neighborhood paradise
of blooming trees.

I walk over, bend down,
inhale and feel a near drug-induced high
by the alluring, inviting, tempting
fragrance of a magnolia blossom.

A twinkle in the eye means joy in the heart
someone who’s set apart
who loves being alive
with a mind in drive.

The Proverb’s truth set me thinking
of who I know with that twinkling
and it took me a while
to think of one with eyes that smile.

I then considered the heart of joy
and remembered the little boy
who learned to play the chord of C
to sing with glee in a major key.

But it happens a boy becomes a man
and sadness, hurt, and error span
years of breakups and loves in the dust
vanished dreams, promises and trust.

Still his soul stays open and awake
and he learns to forgive mistakes,
to forge new ties to fall but rise
and again that twinkle dwells in his eyes.

If I were to describe my day
narrate my movements
write a poem about the bluebird on the fence,
call out my dead brother’s name,
decide to cook supper tonight,
or speak my feelings of jealousy,
who would listen?

And if before finishing my narrative
I decide it is not worth
anyone pausing to spend
the time or energy
to read or listen,
then how far would I get in my effort
to even write a word,
speak a phrase,
think deeper than a layer of dust,
or feel anything beyond the weight of shame
prompting my doubts?

But if I think
someone MIGHT read or listen,
then  it might be worth the effort.

If I think there is definitely
an audience of One
who cares to stop and really pay attention
then yes
I'll write it.
I'll speak it.

the skeptical scientific me
who wonders if it’s a show
people putting their best selves forward
for me and thee?

the faithful me who chooses to believe
in resurrection and life after earth
the me who remembers rebirth
and the joy that rained in my heart?

the me that lets go and falls into love
of the greeters and door-openers
happy to see smiling faces
on a day with parted clouds above?

the me bruised
with the bumps of reality and loss
nailed daily by the boundaries I cross
forgetting prayer and missing cues?

I know something of the person I am
but which self in which place
I fall into isn’t in a program.
In my better moments that fickle self
stumbles and falls into grace.

Why do I care what you think
or how you feel about what I say or do?
Should I, especially at my age?
But is not interaction itself the mutual influencing of behavior?
So when I speak to you and you to me
we are changing each other
just as the morning breeze bends the young Chinese Tallows
shaking each spring leaf as if to say, “Wake up tree, its time to grow!”
and the Tallow whispers, "Blow winds blow."
Caring just means I am human
and in spite of everything
I am glad about that.

Why is the heart the icon of love?
Why not the finger or the thigh?
Would it be just as compelling to say
He loved her with all his mind?
The mind is surely involved in loving -
deciding to do the dishes rather than watch football
or to be romantic when she touches your cheek
while in the midst of writing the last page of your novel.

Why didn’t I ever make love to Mabs
in my twenties rather than discuss politics?
Oh! She was so cute
and smelled like heaven
but our kisses were dry.

I gave my heart to Helen tonight
and she gave me hers
we laughed and teared up
as we shared romantic memories.

And why can’t I feel the heart of Jesus in me?
Is it some spiritual vapid void?
I love and know him but having his heart
escapes my grasp.
I hope before I pass
I will feel him pulsing in my veins.

Maybe another poem
or five or more will help,
for I know my  muse knows
the springs and streams I seek.
And here on these pages
may be an answer…

I awaken in darkness
still terrified and running
from the mountain lion.

But what if I’m the prey
of my own judging
captive of my comparisons?
At times I feel those verdicts in my gut
like when I can’t concentrate on a task
I SHOULD be doing.

When I notice my tight gut
and my mind wanting to flee
I can stop trying
and lying to myself
set my imagination free
roam a wilderness I choose
like right here on the flat and fertile plains
of this poem’s lines.

Gently softly now I float
a small wispy whitish cloud
unto your ocean

Deep in winter
the cold seeps to the bones.
Has the warmth of love gone
lost in another season?

It seems time’s pace is slow
fervor and inspiration
low or hidden well
beneath dead leaves
where grieves
my heart now
for not lingering
in the sweet glow
and smooth surface
the pausing pace
of serenity.

Oak and Elm and Redbud trees
stand stark against winter sky
long ago shed their leaves
their bony fingers reach high.

Waiting patiently for warm days
they tend their souls in soil
they teach us a hundred ways
to dig deep for spirit oil.

Winter’s a time to dwell inside
look in dark corners there
for what we’d rather hide
invite it up for a bit of fresh air.

Standing alone you spring to life,
then the warmth explodes you
covering every inch of your arms and bodice
adorned in your full flowering dress.

But as I swiftly breeze by you on my way
and only take a glance
at you among the others of your nature
you blend in your emerald maturity.

It is not until winter
when you reveal yourself,
naked for us to bask
in all the tributaries of your inner world
and I discover your complex truth,
the heart of your loneliness and abandon,
where you have surrendered
your stunning appearance
and reach up and out beyond your earthly roots
for a life beyond seasons.

In the first light of dawn
fog shrouds the trees
and gentilizes the landscape
softens hard edges
unifies everything.
What is the fog telling me?

Subtract the number of details
that consume attention and energy.
Unify the landscape of life
into something more simple.

Maybe I should listen to the wisdom of the fog.

Words are both angels and devils
they set my mind on the divine
capture the beauty of Earth
from the budding pear tree across the way
then back here to this room where
words become my servants and masters.

Spring teems green.
Bluebonnets blanket Texas hills
yet I cannot find words for
their delicacy and glory,
nor how these tiny miracles make me feel.
How do I capture the incredible life
coursing through stems, leaves and blooms?

Yet without words no sacred volumes
to guide us
no Rumi, Dickens and Austen on shelves
no Dylan, Jay-Z, Lennon, or Parton in our ears
no Case, Willow, Khoi, Pradip sparkling in our eyes.

Yes demons fly in them
but words capsulize the depth, breadth, and passion
of the human soul
I bow to these small human creations
and how they speak the universe.

The foam of ocean waves
the cries of a newborn babe
the profusion of pedals in a daisy-dotted field
clouds nudging each other
a kiss a sloppy seal
a song that thrills
all these words owned me
took me for a moment this morning.

Being wrapped in your love
feels so good on a wintry day
makes me grateful even for the gray,
for this life I get to live with you
and the spring that soon will break through
the browns and the downs.

The birds' songs are inviting me
to join them in joy
in holy union with Earth
where they make their home.
May I have such a relationship
bring such joy
to each small encounter of the day.
My desire is to be wrapped in a spirit of kindness
cloaked with love
as I step into the stream
with my fellow creatures
for I know the pain of anger
the dark valley of revenge.
Today I want a different mind
and heart.

Some people are writers
some are speakers or preachers.

Some try to do both
but one side of them always presses forward
as if to say,
This is who I really am
This is my natural gift.

For some it might be arduous
an obligatory response
to get from here to there
so you’ll know I’m here
to see if you’re there.

But for me it is air
my oxygen
inspire – to catch your spirit
expire – to leave mine.
It is how I renew my life
how I die… just a little
with each stroke of the pen
each tap of the keys.

It is living.
Without it
I leave you
I leave me.

Writing is like jumping into a deep mountain lake
to find some tiny piece of my soul
submerged and floating there
an immersive brooding wistful prayer
or a flight into the blue thin air.

It is a cinematic journey
recording the fruits of noticing
what is right in front of the eyes
and finding what is deeper
unseen underneath.

Writing is looking into an old man’s eyes
and discovering the person there
just as much a spiritual venture
digging toward his center
as a physical sensation.

It is a magical mystery tour
taking the visible threads
in hand and feeling my way
to the roots
or pausing and squeezing the fruit
for its juice.

It is fun
it is a morning run
or an evening rest
pain, joy, and dreams expressed.

Writing is moving, grooving, including
taking a moment in time
exploding it in rhythm and rhyme
finding in the ordinary the sublime.

I open this blank Word document.
Its white expanse a challenge I am not sure I want to take.
But now I’ve got two lines - going on three
will this be the seed of a small green sprout of a tree?

This page is a bright sky
beckoning me to take a breath
at first shallow barely containing enough oxygen
to sustain sitting up.

But writing is like breathing to me
I do it most of the time without much effort
inspiring and expiring
here in this white desert
one line at a time
minute by minute, day after day
trying to find something worthwhile to say
worthy of my time as I sit here growing older
or your time to pause here in this blooming desert
never quite sure if it or I am worthy of the fuss.
But isn’t writing the thing that sustains us
no matter its poetic patterns or rhythms or rhymes?
Writing is breathing to me and do it I must.  Lots of times.

I am here in the hazy light of a new dawn
writing to you.
You and I here alone
is like floating in a soft piano nocturne.
Gliding over the keys with natural finesse
is a taste of heaven.

Here in this muted light
with you in mind
a privilege no less
than being in the majestic presence
of loving and friendly royalty.

Writing to you
from the inner reaches of my heart
is a journey
more precious
than the emerald landscape
I can see
to the far horizon
of this new day.

The freshness of this moment
basking in our love
is a tiny sprout
greeting blessed light
thrilled with the sticky twining
of its new life.

It is good being here
alive with you.

Written 7-19-18

I followed her into the field across the street,
our parents inside gossiping,
she sat down in the high dry hay
and that was the very first day
of a special innocent discovery
“You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

I can still remember the aroma of that hay.
When I was tramping through a field
thirty years later
I felt strangely excited and alive
I knew not why.
And today I recalled that day
I followed her across the street
to sit in the hay.

You are an ocean of love
I float and drift on your surface
but under your sparkling skin
teems an ineffable life
another world mostly unseen,
selfless, unsung, and undeserved.

But here I am not even skin deep.
Am I afraid
of drowning in your depth
of being overwhelmed
in my modest capacities?

Oh my love
even if I see only what you reveal
to the sighted
I saturate myself in your splendid shallows
and await those precious interludes
of your deeper touch.

You are in the waving limbs
of the pear tree in spring
the inquiring yellow eyes of my cat
the majesty and vastness of the roaring sea
the lively brown eyes of my lover
the soft sobs of saying goodbye
to his precious wife after illness
the soft hop of the toad
the light of the fireflies
the moments of their darkness
the birds who dip and drink
from small puddles of collected rain
the male cardinal feeding his mate
you laugh in the giggle of a toddler
and abide there in his tears
you are the unrestrained laughter of a wife
at her husband’s clumsy goof
the closing off from those we love
and the unfolding of life in isolation
you are my higher power
beyond even the strongest moments
of my fighting ego
as a swift wind
swaying and singing with the sage
and dancing with the sunflower stalk in spring
you show me how to wait
how to breathe in the peace of dawn
how to be.

One moment I am high
with the light of soulfulness within.
The next I am down
in the clutch of desire
and enticements.