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And When It Comes Undone

And when it comes undone,
it is not the end.
It is the beginning, an opportunity
to remake, recreate, rebecome
something not as good,
but better.
New.

This is not to suggest, however
that allowing rot to win
in a recommended practice,
but should it sneak up on you
and fall apart, you may be surprised
at the miracle that emerges.

About this poem

Life comes undone. We get a redo. We can do the same thing or make something new.

When my life came undone a decade and a half ago, I tried doing the same for a short while, and then changed course and letting life remake itself. What I have now is far different, and far better.

Who knew?

Tom

PS – the picture was taken at an abandoned factory in Turner’s Falls, MA.

Poem: And in the Evening

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And in the Evening

Come.
Sit with me.
Let me feel your warmth
as the sun sets.
Your head on my lap.
The soft rise and fall of your chest
as you sleep,
safe.
Together.
As one.

About this poem

There is a special intimacy when someone sleeps close to you. An intimacy born in safety.

Tom

 

Poem: Second Summer

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Second Summer

Summer light.
A road.
A journey, in the lush summer,
languid, slow and heated.

Along the road, a river runs.
Water dances as you dangle your feet
of the edge of ancient rocks.

Her voice is music,
part of the summer lushness,
a surprise, each day she loves you

here in the summer of your life,
a second season, unexpected as age,
and welcome beyond rationality.

About this poem

This past weekend was one of those times when plan after plan blew up. Two groups of friends that we expected for the weekend, didn’t make it for various reasons. An art show I had planned to show in got rained out.

But in the end, we had a lovely weekend. Time together, just the two of us, is precious, and when it is as unexpected as the love itself, there is a special joy in it.

It has taken me a long time to embrace joy again. I can’t tell you how much it means to me now. But I try.

Tom

Poem: What Matter, Rain

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What Matter, Rain? 

It is raining outside.
But you are in,
gently in love.

The light is dim and colorless,
but around her, a light glows
from within.

Outside, everything glistens, wet and cold
The cat comes in, water droplets on her whiskers.
But you are dry and warm curled up next to her.

This is love.
It does not make life perfect,
only, always, better.

It is raining outside.

About this poem

A love poem to start my Saturday.

I had an outside art show planned for today. The rain and wind canceled it out. All my art, tents and tables are sitting in the back of my old Isuzu Trooper, where they will stay till the rain stops. No selling art for me today.

But I have more time with my bride and it will be a slow, together kind of day.

Things work out. They work out better with her in my life.

Tom

Poem: Nothing Else Matters

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Nothing Else Matters

Push the world aside.
Find a place for just you, and I,
a place where we can talk, one to the other,
a place of listening for breath and soul
and the electricity of touch, one hand on the other.

Set aside the noise. Push aside the crowd.
There is you, and I. Nothing else matters
save the sound of two souls slowing down
and rediscovering each other again,
again, and always
again.

About this poem

Too often we say certain things matter most, but act as if they don’t.

A love poem. The woman I love has been away a couple of days and returns this afternoon.

A poem of spirit. For too often life is too busy and too noisy for us to find God in the mix.

You choose. Or don’t. It’s OK for things to have more than one meaning.

Tom

PS – The picture was taken at the Wiburton Inn in Manchester, VT.

Poem: The Care and Feeding of Windows

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The Care and Feeding of Windows

The windows grow with age.
With understanding and time.
They grow as you foster the repairs caused
by other people’s blindness.
They grow in grace,
yours and his,
in the listening to truths that were there all the time
but covered with vines of fear and neglect.

As you do the work and cut the vines to their roots.
as you paint the shutters and Windex the windows.
They grow
with age.

About this poem. 

For most of my youth, my father and I had a love-hate relationship. As we both aged, there was more love than hate.

For a time after my divorce, my kids didn’t think much of me. Today our love is strong. I am blessed by them more than I can express.

The change in both instances came because truth was discovered, on all sides. And more than that, because all of us allowed ourselves to believe that truth and understand the other. Our windows grew and light grew brighter. Not perfect, but always brighter.

Happy Father’s Day,

Tom