Post-Covid Hugs
I want to give the world a hug
The world needs a hug
But the world increasingly rejects a full-frontal, enthusiastic hug
You have to sneak up on the world and hug it from behind
The creepiness of which presents you with a whole set of other problems
Poor guy (me)
Walking around with all that shit backed up
Still Small Voice
There is a still small voice inside of me,
That speaks clearly and distinctly.
It says “Press on, all is not lost.”
“Please be quiet,” I reply.
The voice persists, “Press on.”
“Press on for those who remain in the flesh. Press on.”
“Shut up,” I shout back;
“You are not of the flesh. What do you know of pressing?”
“Be quiet still small voice, stop bothering me. I have work to do.”
I won that argument. I sent the still small voice packing.
He went silently.
I have the feeling that he is waiting for a quiet moment.
He likes those.
Sunday Morning Due
A tiny shimmering bird fluttered—insuring I acknowledged its appearance
It hovered above the flowerbed a few feet away—with curious indifference
We caught each other’s eye
It came closer—not the least bit shy
It was not interested in my fussed-over blooms
Yet still—it spoke to me no doom
Why was I so excited
By this guest I had not invited?
Was there an intended message
In its swift-wing, hovering, gossamer dressage?
The tiny bird was a shimmering, ominous black—
Still, I would eagerly welcome it back
Not many such birds appear here you know
I suppose, there are worse ways to go
Or maybe the portend was simply due
You did not come to me—so I came to you
In reflection—I offer this
A front stoop will do
For a little Sunday morning bliss