the count starts now (tired of tired)


I read your outcry at 3:00am
posted on Facebook

you are
tired of tired
sick of sick
the only question, will it ever end...

rise this day,  start another way...

count your blessing
count against all odds
for there are more than merely one

use both hands
both hands chested to feel the heart thrusting,
for living is a wondrous blessing unique
an unbelievable to believe than so many beats,
born and borne,
by you, a strength unequaled,
you a richness possessed

count that one first.
count my hands holding your shoulders.
count that as two, one for me, one for you.

more? more.  

mirror.  find the tiny light in each eye against a yellow backdrop.

add two more. for they are a sparking confidence of confirming.

you felt the heart thrumming
go back, feel the breathing warmth breaching forth.
add another. for now known you can never ever be cold.

wash the face, wash away the caution that sleep leaves,
the coverlet of fear that fears you not to dare,
amazing that tap water plain is sacred when it
miracle breaks you out and anoints thy forehead with pure oil like the kings of yore, be a kingly human being.

go out. do not return
until one act of kind is performed and
count that as a thousand blessed, a sum recurring recounted

walk humble and the path will always appear.
walk contented for you can be both king and servant,
there is no difference - you must be both to be the other
one.

and if you still cannot raise the head,
call me.
that would be a blessing for me
and I will hear your blessings sounds mine merge,
dear friend and no more stranger,
that is the simplest definition of our learning to count to
infinity

Ctrl-Alt-Delete.
Come sterilize history with me.
We'll whitewash every smudge
until its sparkles and shines,
like fool's gold.

Rich only in our own
limited heads,
we'll believe in
addition by subtraction.
Only this isn't math, it's life.

'Those who do not learn history
are doomed to repeat it.'

Sometimes the laughter between  
us could heal a *****.
He would say, “Dear God, my nose is falling  
off, but these two ******* are funny.”
Jesus would say with a grin and a snicker,
“Go in peace my son, you are healed.”

I loved laughing with you Mare.
I felt like a kid that just watched
a five year old accidentally hit his dad in the
nuts with a plastic bat.

When you would get really hysterical,
you‘d make these strange snorting sounds
with your nose.  Our eyes watered like faucets.
I’m crying too now Mare—but not  
from sorrow.  My tears are from sheer joy at
our comedic silly days in the sun together.
I hope you’re laughing too.

Shrewd enough to pick a purse
To feed a mouth sheltered under a rain of curse.

Empty bottles and opponent as partners
The fruit of a faint love
Now mine to pick.

Sleep and wake to the sour taste of poverty
Cure in the heart of men that walk the street

Too good to smile at the tartered shirt
Too quick to point our direction

Too heavy a baggage to carry
Too light the burden I offload

Ran back to my sheltered nest
Broken bottles and a red eyed woman
From whence I came
To this world of pain

Opponents as partners
The tattered shelter nature spared us

A smile on the little ones
My motivation to attract a pointing finger

My tatttered shelter - Opponents as partners.