I am learning more about my power

There have been many
who have gone before me
and their courage,
makes me more courageous.

Their words and songs
make me feel seen,
and now I have power
where there was despair.

When I did not have a voice,
they spoke for me.
When I did not have the will,
they sang over me.

I am learning more
about my power,
but power isn’t always
stern and serious,

You see, when my smile is wide like the sunset,
my dancing
and my laughing
become a mighty power of their own.

I want to dip into the cool water
of redemption.
I want to refresh myself
on the fountain of grace.

If I sound preachy,
then let me preach something
that I believe in:
Kindness is power.

I want to see more of it.
I want to fill my eyes with it during the day
So much so, that when I dream,
All I can dream is kindness.

I want to kill my selfishness.
I want to put to death things that should die.
I want to water the things that should live.
I want kindness to grow

And I want it to take root in my heart.

I want kindness to grow,
because kindness is my power.

-TS

I thought it’d be a train station

The meaning unfolds and ebbs downriver
to the banks of a town that I faintly remember.
I’m not in a woven basket or nothing,
it’s not so biblical and serious,
but I am more buoyant than I would have imagined.

Every thought in my life is swirling underneath me,
the bad ones and the good ones.
I’m glad they kinda even out for the most part;
and the water is a pleasant temperature for the day.

I’m sorta suspended there, hanging, by the banks
of that town, so I decide to get up outta the water;
inspect the downtown and ya know … people watch.

There’s a lot of people I remember and some I don’t,
They’ve got other things on their mind so they pass me by.

The metaphor for life and death is a river, I always thought it’d be a train station.

No Home Here

 

(On returning back to Cincinnati after a road trip to see a best friend from college)

There was a time when my feeling of home was neat.
Neat like a young boy dressed up in polished, brown
leather shoes, creased slacks and a multicolored,
polo shirt from Kohl’s that cost $12.50.

I was not a troubled boy from a troubled home,
nor was I an Airforce brat tucking my teddy goodnight
in twelve different coastal cities before the age of 10.
My feeling of home, as I said, was neat.

The postman delivered my mail, mostly from relatives
at the time, for well over fifteen years … until he retired and
we got a postwoman (how progressive). We stayed in
one place so long we saw the rise and fall of a man’s entire career.

All I was really certain of was the feeling of home I felt.
There were tears for missed kisses and for scraped knees,
but there was always a bedroom to retreat to. And there
was always a stocking with my name on the Christmas mantle.

I haven’t had a feeling of home like that in twelve years.
The ‘something solid’ has been missing from my heart
and I’ve been balancing my emotions as well as
sub-prime mortgage spending at the millennium’s turn.

I’ve lived in houses since, yes, not homes. Not my home anyway.
Maybe we are all just strangers missing the same made-up
feeling of home. If we have no place to rise from, to retreat to,
to protect and keep, will we ever feel complete?

My name is carved into the wood under the marble countertop
in the kitchen at the address of 185 Nod Road Ridgefield,
Connecticut, where once stood my home.
It has since been painted over.

A Prayer from May

Lord, you are good and I am confused.
Most of the time.
Maybe almost all of the time.
You love me.
And I love you, but mostly when I feel good.

You are filled to the brim with wonder.
So am I.
You are creative.
So am I.

You choose people.
Like Israel.
You choose people.
Like me.

Make me more like you today.
I love you.

Your friend,
TY

Imposter

In poetry, everyone seems to know what kind of tree.
“Crickets cry by the black walnut tree.”
Everyone knows what color the gardenias are and they don’t have to ask what part of the world gardenias are from.
The red-bellied birds are from this place and the black-capped ones are from that one.
The Ottoman Empire ended precisely then.
Job was obviously feeling this when his new family arrived from God.
The stars above Washington state twinkle differently than they do in the south of France.
An esplanade is the same as a promenade.
It’s obvious to each dramatic, idyllic, one of them.
But it ain’t so obvious to me.
In poetry, everyone seems to know what kind of tree.

-TS

Quarantine Poem #4 “Content”

Give me a warm bed to rise from,
A guitar to write songs with,
A pad of paper for my poems,
A ham and cheese sandwich for lunch,
A mid-day walk around my neighborhood,
A friend to talk to on the phone,
A something sweet to eat,
A clean and tidy room,
A midnight walk up to the deserted campus,
And I will be content.

TS

Quarantine Poem #3: “Candy”

What if we gave out love
like bags of candy at halloween.
What if we went door to door
and told people we love them
without ever having to say the words.
What if the whole world loved
their neighbor. And I mean just
their next door neighbor.
I see a new future for us,
A new trajectory, where we give
out our love like bags of candy
at Halloween.

TS

Emerald Eyes – Manic Elijah

Quarantine Poem #2 “Home”

I spoke to an old friend today.
It had been awhile since the
last phone call.
But it didn’t matter.

I saw the soccer fields in my
hometown as she was talking.
I saw the banking, twisting roads.
I was home for a moment.
I was back home.

TS

Quarantine Poem #1 “Slow”

Slow down,
Slower than you ever have,
And breath a little deeper
And rest a little longer.

You have so much to look at.
Even if it’s just your little room
And out your little windows.

TS