Crow Tuesday: Therapist Garden

I have a garden

full of baldheaded,

bifocaled therapists

with sofas, chairs

and shelves of esoteric books.

I water them once a day

with my problems and concerns,

fertilize them

with plenty of pain

and angst.

I make sure

they have sufficient sunlight

to jot down notes,

and plenty of space to say:

What would you

like to talk about?

And, that’s all the time

we have today.

I prune the issues

I worked through,

weed the therapists

who lose their

objectivity,

and compost

all my childhood

memories.

Poem: Walkers With Tennis Balls

Growing older

makes you accept

change,

circumstances

beyond your control.

 

Nursing homes,

microwave meals,

arthritic fingers,

feet soaked in salts,

walkers

with tennis balls.

 

It makes you adapt,

recognize

the lasting things,

remember

the missing things.

 

Doctor visits,

rising co-pays,

bunions on both

feet, murmurs

of the heart,

on the john

way too long.

 

Growing older

humbles you,

makes you accept

your fate, head

and hands that shake.

 

Choose a date,

time and place,

pay the burial fee,

make peace with the

creator,

take a number

and wait

your turn.

On The Porch

pexels-photo-828764.jpeg

On a quiet night,

the old man

smokes a stogie

sitting on the porch.

He can only watch

the little beetles

with lanterns

light up the sky.

Now he knows better,

he doesn’t chase

after them,

collect fireflies

in Mason jars.

He doesn’t pull

their wings apart,

curious about how

they glimmer and fly.

He knows that

their blinking bulbs

are temporary

as his life,

the fading light

that glows.

©️mft

Poem: Unfamiliar Spaces

Dreams,
smokey nights
in darkened rooms
with relatives
mixed with friends
and enemies

Dreams,
anxious and
surreal, caught between
narrow walls, thick bars
and fences
with barking dogs

Dreams,
that move into
unfamiliar spaces,
steps with no stairs,
running on fresh
cement

Dreams,
speechless,
unspoken wishes,
lame excuses,
the unconscious
untamed

Dreams,
back to the wall,
head to the floor,
clawing up a slippery slope,
into a maze
without an exit sign

Dreams,
never seem to say
what they mean,
never finish
what they think, until
it’s too late,
the dreamer
wakes up

with a vague suspicion,
a piece of undigested
story,
a cryptic message,
a letter
with no return address.

©️mft

Poem: Freedom

is it the only path

to walk

and see what

you see,

burdened by your

sins

and judgments

 

or could I venture

on my own,

even if it is a lonely

pilgrimage,

or if I read the wrong

book

and meet

 

the wrong people,

lost souls who don’t

bare the cross or

the star or the hammer

and sickle or the crescent

moon

 

perhaps I’ll find my way,

a misguided dreamer

taking a road of less shame,

feet and hands unbound,

a journey without all those

harsh rules.

 

©️mft

Poem: Dreamers

 

pexels-photo-566641.jpeg

A young homeless couple
living below the poverty line,
among the sirens of despair

Dream of stepping lightly,
waltzing on the cliff of hope,
high in the rich hills of midnight

Moving to the rhythm of the universe,
to the song in their hearts
to a light show down below

Slowly, in their own time,
giving each other their hands, 
they find their desires

Discover themselves, their passion
in the City of Angels, dancing
like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.