This poem is a bridge between here and there,
between trouble and peace. I write to
find my way to what lies beneath:
the bigger story in which my small
human journey is contained.
I didn't mean to carry so much:
the heavy lift of helping others
carry their own burdens;
the weight of a world in freefall:
people at war with each other,
at war with the planet itself.
One grows old
the weight of a world in freefall:
people at war with each other,
at war with the planet itself.
One grows old
before we learn to travel light.
My head wakes every morning
to, first, the weather, what kind of day
it is, indoors or walking weather.
Then the news rushes in, the horrors
that happened overnight while
I was sleeping; the insane antics
of people wanting to govern the world
who are unable to govern themselves.
My poems are an effort to sweep the path,
make a clear space in my thoughts, the better to
breathe in the peace of Mother Ocean,
walk in the greenly Sister Forest, eyes
following the flight of birds above,
in the clear air - the most fortunate of beings,
who do not know of war, who are content
with simply Being.
My teachers: waves, the wild ones, trees.
A simplicity that brings me to my knees.
A Wild Writing poem sparked by Mark Nepo's unpublished poem "At Gate 3, in August." The italicized lines are his.
There really is SO much for anyone to carry. The heavy lift of helping others, the wars, the news. I do think your writing is a good way to sweep the path. I like that expression really.. There is just so much to sweep nowadays.
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