Speak the smallest grains of truth

Boulders will follow

Motivation is a good motivator; where is she?
In the grass tiny bugs tickle the edges of my feet.
The sun’s rays and the road’s grit
push through spirit and out the mind.
Silent, I can finally hear and sing.

Motivation tocks from that spiraled inside clock.
Not precocious, still it visits
when I’m slowed down to humble and don’t know.
I surrender to her sputtering melody
and laugh through the nectar.

Wait—see if she doesn’t push along the deep back wall
and tap out a new plan, a pirouette,
a frantic look-through.
I plant those feet in the grass
and wait to be tickled again.

All my assumptions broke into pieces:
sharp; slithery; and none-too-shiny.
Portland spoke through my ticklish in-step.
She pressed into the soles of my feet with
rose-and-tumble acceptance.
I skirted puddles known and unknown.
Restless possiblity swayed along my sides.
She steadied my stride—“It’s ok.”

Who knew that asphalt could be a tender touch,
that this patient, old-friend town of mine
would roll out padding and take me easy,
while the stuffing in my head blew ‘round.

Love retroactive,
Appreciates warts and all.
Shoulda coulda been.

Tender, she forgets
provocation, frustration.
No so bad, really.

Disappointment stops
sweeping passion, pleasure. No,
don’t go back again.

* * * *

LOVE LOST BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
For just a moment
intimacy connected
mouth to heart to eye.

We dared open
pain, promise and differences
gently, with respect.

My tenderized heart

craves remembered passion yet,

while cool head prevails

MORNING

Awaken spirit

Speak the smallest grains of truth

Boulders will follow

I failed the test but offered a plan
That’s me–always a plan.
“We’ll walk, get some coffee.”
Coffee cures anything in this town.

Now it’s our plan
The hospital? OK.
Just like everywhere else
There’s a little espresso bar.

I wobbled some half mile,
shambling drunkenly, oblivious to my fuddle.
Slowly I pulled out the order –
Tall double latte.

Black-turned-white juices swirled my internal gray
and poked through the clouds.
If I can still order coffee
maybe I remember this trick called living.

Not so fast, there…
“You must see your doctor.”
OK, I’ll pull his name out of information.
“We’ll see you this afternoon.”

I tottered more steadily now,
loping through Chinese antiques
and not even crashing.
Home, finally.

I nested in a comfy chair with book,
highlighter and pillows.
Nicely napped, I awoke with brain
and little memory of it’s vacation.

Time for lunch, then downtown.
You drive–fine.
I’ll be reacquainted with my brain,
fresh from its alien holiday.

Bones long for earth, floors,
mattresses, to hold them up.
They lay heavy with morning
Should-for-me brain scrubs them with coffee
while sodden mind craves newsprint rebellion.

Fantasy swats at comforts ebb and flow.
I’ve done ok haven’t I? Content then.
All spice? or all plain? Fear? Or folly?
I chalk up conservative choices,
and what did I conserve? May as well dance wildly.

I’ve found my fancy for plain.
Self-knowledge? acceptance? or smallness?
That “other hand” stirs so many colors it can’t remember what to paint.
Splashing pumpkin orange perfection
All spice.