Every now and then I feel a bit poetic. Not that I claim to be a poet nor do I claim to always understand poetry. On the contrary, I am in total awe of anyone who truly is a poet. I’m with “Arthur Bach,” when he acknowledged, “Not everyone who drinks is a poet; some of us drink because we’re not poets.”

That said, I do, ill-advisedly, pen the occasional poem and share a few here now with you.

Hummingbird

Hummingbird stopped by tonight
Settled on the railing wire
Dental-floss tongue testing the air for bugs

Breathed in and out
Red neck pulsing
Sentinel and guardian.
What did he see?

Large eyes peering back at him in awe
Did he know what he inspired?

Memories woven through tender moments.

And then he flew away.

Little Ghosts

Little Ghosts occupy the corners

Corners of the room
        Corners of my mind
                  Corners of my heart

Wisps of memory
           Perched on window sills
                 Sprawled across my computer keyboard
Meowing at the door

Bags, Lucy, Inky, Cindy, Chloe, Violet

Memories of how they lived,
Memories of how they died…

Taking small bits of me with them.

Meditation

I lit your stick this morning and as I watched the smoke curl upwards and the flame slowly burn out I said a prayer of thanks that the thought of a small boy’s emotional well-being kept you from doing that most final of acts.