Happy Thanksgiving! This year I opted for a short poem that I wrote almost as a post it to be given to someone when they feel like they’ve lost hope. I know throughout this year, probably all of us, at some point, have had a moment where ‘things felt a bit hopeless.’ Here’s a little instruction list to remind us that hope is always present. We are all spiritual beings living a human experience and often just that thought provides me with some hope. I always try to keep in mind that no matter how dark things are for someone, nobody wants to struggle, be lost, or feel hopeless. So this Thanksgiving, individually and collective, it’s important to recognize we’re doing the best we can with what we know how to do. Sometimes we just need some instructions on how to remember what to do when hope/gratitude/joy seems out of reach. I am thankful for all those who take the time to read this silly little blog of poems and musings. The joy, the gratitude I experience when someone comments or likes something I’ve written or even just views it, is something that gives me hope. For the platform and for the individuals who might stumble across it and read something I worked to create, I am sincerely blessed and thankful.
Instructions for When I Lose Hope:
Wash clean the footprints in the garden.
Hose down the immediate urgency, bucking my body into fever.
Keep night watch on the blossom lying on my tongue,
it is a rose that can blossom anytime.
Let fall, the beads of sweat, I need to know
the hunger, the mercy, the way my body cools itself.
Allow the inevitable sigh, as we glance away in opposite directions.
Give me pause before I turn off this light.
Press the softness of the petal against my lips, let them remember soft things feel good on the mouth.
Strike up the splintered match,
allow me to be struck by awe as the delicate broken object can still burn holes through my heart.
Pound reverence into my words and action into my skin.
Scorch me, I want to rise like flames
Make me cross my heart and hope to die,
that I would take the fall and make it my own,
if the risk of tripping keeps us away from what we need.
Be as willing as my whisper, to shout
if I become too comfortable with thorns.
When all else fails, remind me
how magical it is that I still breathe.
Oak Roads: Poetry and Musings 