Wasting Time

I worry about nights spent
Doing nothing in particular;
On one hand, necessary
To let my mind wander;
But on the other hand,
I wonder what I could have
Accomplished in the minutes
I will never get back.

But this is what they call
Wasting Time.

While I'm sitting, feeling numb,
Lazily placated by mindless
Chatter, shows and songs
That I'll never remember,
There are moments when
I hear the precious tick tock
Within me, trying to rouse me:
I know there is only so much left.

This is what I call
Wasting Time.

New Things

I love it when God brings
New Things
Seemingly out of nowhere
Into our lives.

Always so exciting,
New Things--
Failing not to
Renew the spirit.

Never an end to the
New Things:
This walk with God
Anything but boring.

Renewing our minds--
New Things
He brings into our lives
To Encourage us.

Been awhile since your
New Things?
You're one moment
Closer to your Promise!

Americana: I Never Said Good-bye

Just a kid playing in her bedroom,
Surrounded by dolls and books,
Listening to the Grown Ups
Laughing and Reminiscing
In the Family Room.

When they call for supper,
I leave my private oasis
And journey into the kitchen
To enjoy the fruits of labor
To which I never contributed.

But, oh, how I enjoyed the company!
The stories, the laughter, the joy;
These were survivor stories,
These were people whose Faith
Had carried them through dark streets.

And I would grin widely, cramming
A last biscuit or piece of toast
Into my mouth before I excused
Myself and left for the comfort
Of my own universe.

Still, I could hear them, their voices
Ricocheting off of interior walls,
Walls where family photos and
Mirrors and cande-sticks made us
Believe we were LIVING a good life!

Somehow, absorbed in my room,
I failed to notice when they all departed;
When the laughter finally died out
And silence sat like a heavy load
On empty furniture.

"Where had they gone?" I wondered,
With a sense of growing desperation
When I called and no one answered.
"Mom?" I whispered. And again.
Not a sound. Not a movement.

"Mom..." I said frantically,
Leaving dolls and dreams,
Racing into the hallway
Where all the photos had been.
They were missing.

This wasn't my house! Not really!
Though I recognized what was left
To be something of mine,
I couldn't see the rest of them.
They weren't here.

I looked for empty cups and mess
But that, too, was just a memory.
There was nothing left here now.
Nothing that I remembered.
"Where are you, Momma?" I cried.

Collapsing in a chair in the eerily
Quiet living room, I resist
The inclination to panick.
My heart, my body, my muscles
Seizing at the Realization:

They're gone. It's all gone.
Everything that really mattered to me:
Love and laughter, family, faith.
If I close my eyes, I can still see it.
Now all a distant memory.

"I never said good-bye."

Ripped from the Headlines

Most folks don't even spend much time
Reading over headlines news
Or watching glammed up spokesmodels
Reading script scrolling before
High-tech camera lenses.
Not anymore, anyway.

Most folks don't even want to know
What the headlines say today--
Because beyond the Entertainment
And Travel sections lie a gritty
Cesspool of a Reality
No one cares to see.

Most folks don't realize that
Everything they once knew--
And still hold in their hearts to be true--
Does not exist as it once did.
Maybe the DO suspect it, deep down, but
No one wants to believe it.

Most folks read over headlines
But avoid reading the fine print
Because it is in all the tedious reading
That one might "read between the lines"
And realize that something is amiss.
(No one wants to admit it.)

Most folks live day-to-day, blissfully
Oblivious to the stirring winds
Breezing past them, beneath them;
And I wonder, when the quake
Causes earth to swallow them if
"No one will notice it."

There's "Most Folks" and then there's "Me";
I wonder the responsibility in SEEING
Yet being utterly POWERLESS to do
Or say anything to Right the Wrongs.
What can this girl do, please? Can
No one can tell me?

----------------------------------------------------------

This poem was written in the a.m., after reading news headlines only, online.

Cobble-Stone Streets

These days, I am walking
On Cobble-Stone Streets.
Uneven, unmeasured, these stones
Take some serious concentration
To navigate without falling Down.

I remember seeing this path
From several paces back,
Remember the longing I had
To embark on such an exciting endeavor.
And I remember that first step.

With two extra inches, heeled
To coordinate with the bright dress
I donned that day, the color of the sun,
I remember putting my full weight
Onto that first stone..

I dared to believe it would hold me--
As it had held so many before me;
And it did--hold me--though I
Caught my heel, only slightly,
On the crevice directly beneath my feet.

Though only a minor mishap--
My body tipped, off-balance,
Launching me forward, arms out.
I found myself wondering
If every step would be as humbling.

I stood then, on the cobble stone,
Stopped for a moment to smoothe
Hair and dress and breathe a breath
Of gratefulness for my recovery.
And readied for the next step.

I've been down this street now,
For quite some time, it seems.
There have been many paces,
And I've learned to take my time,
Assess carefully before I move.

Oh, yes, I've stumbled, and may
Again--in the time it takes to write this--
But I will make my way forward,
By the inch, if necessary, face
Smiling toward the heavens.

No, these streets are not Easy--
Though they certainly seem to be
To all those stationed with high-end,
Extraordinary life-capturing cameras
Or to all those standing still.

I know there are those who
Question my choice, misunderstand
My motivations--but I know why
I'm here, making every effort to succeed.
This is my destiny: Cobble-Stone Streets.

Underneath Her Mask

Underneath her mask
Is a little girl, wide-eyed
With wonder at this life--
The pains, the gains,
The discolorations.

Underneath her mask
Is a woman who Thinks,
A woman who Prays,
A woman who Believes:
No matter what "They" say.

Underneath her mask
Is a Soul yearning for
What IS beyond this,
What WILL BE beyond this:
She is "One of Those."

Underneath her mask
You may hear her gasping for air:
She is fighting for every moment,
For the oxygen and energy to absorb
And enjoy this Precious Opportunity.

Underneath

Underneath lie ancient roads
Traveled long ago by those
Moving from one place to another,
One foot in front of the other.

Countless people,
Countless generations
Living from day-to-day,
Face to the sun,
Carrying burdens,
Relieved to sleep.

Underneath lie ancient paths
Taken by young and old alike,
The oblivious, the brilliant,
Moms and Dads, children, too.

Their faces I see dimly now,
Traveling to and fro,
The jovial, the unhappy,
Those with peace,
And those without.
All on their way to something.

Underneath lie now defunct roads:
Unable to meet the demands of time,
Incapable of century invincibility,
Long-forgotten opportunities.

Now, centuries later,
We dig around in search of something
Our Today has been unable to provide.
So, with trowel in hand, we disrupt
What has been left to us,
Looking for what Has Been.

Underneath.



-------------------------
Inspired by the Twitter headline on 06-27-13: @Israel: "Section of an 1,800 year old Roman road exposed in Jerusalem"