A Well-Being of One’s Own

I confess I judge people

by how much they’ve

overcome themselves.

It says almost all

one needs to know.

I don’t mean to judge.

I’ve just opted out

of the jury pool, though

my practice remains.

I’ve asked myself

why would anyone

carry their bags into

every room they enter?

Besides, they take up

too much damn room!

Life doesn’t require luggage,

but an unpacking of the heart,

because despite our experience:

beautiful, traumatic, fun, scary,

hurtful, healing, embarrassing,

they’ve no staying power

unless we place them

in a strangle hold.

Me, I float through the forest

light as a leaf on the wind,

my well-being in proportion

to that which I’m aware of.

Hurt waves its white flag

so to escape any whiff

of personal patriotism.

A poem is

antithetical to politics.

Poets are rarely tribal,

but lame goats

meant to lead.

We are not dualistic.

We are not nihilistic.

We are the power

of the flower. We are

clouds, sky, and stars.

We are our remedy;

our pain is our medicine.

God married the Devil

so we could dance

at his wedding.

Eat, drink, and be weary,

for tomorrow we die

so that we might

truly begin to live.

Life takes our teeth,

our hair, our smiles,

our memories, and

scatters our photographs

like so much mulch.

With our precious

things gone,

what do we do

for an antidote?

How do we become

what we already are?

God saves those

who save themselves.

God loves those

who love themselves.

God hates those

who hate themselves

and projects that hatred

onto others.

Our illnesses are purposeful.

They’re never willy nilly.

It’s what our body does

when it can’t live up to

what we think we want

but should know better.

06/14/24