Sunday Morning Nap
Softly, you lie
tucked into a slow
Sunday nap
breathing gently
drifting through only
the kindest dreams.
Outside, it seems
the sun should melt
the frost, and yet
the grass still
sparkles so
the deer remain unseen
their quiet presence felt
just inside the bramble.
Morning light
drifts lazy, as smoke
in calm air…
loose leaves
turn once, again, to
the slight breeze.
Winter thickens light
slanting through iced
window panes
sweeping out last night’s gloom
to walk broad swaths
slowly across our room.
You have curled up
under mounds of
covers
tucked into a late
morning nap
all soft and curly
dodging the lazy sun
swirling with golden motes.
If I am quiet
I can match the
steady surge
of your sleepy
breathing
to join you in this cosy space
I’ll tell the day, “Go elsewhere,
we’re napping…”
Touch
In the waning hours as the veil thins
Mortality bears such honest witness:
Life's one precious gift is Touch.
Beyond presence, essence remains
Yet solid substance falls away
Leaving lips bereft of other's lips
Seeing lingers longest, for Vision spans
This gulf of spirit, spurred by thought
Yet sight alone offers little warmth
Other senses tease: smells, tastes
Sounds are more of memory than mass
Without density, we are ephemeral
All of existence is perhaps reduced
To the metric of sub-atomic closeness
Energetic sentience in constant flux
This birthing, a harmony in the flow
Found briefly, sublime coalescence
Loose electrons formed molecules!
Cells make more cells, to animate bodies
Awareness again assumes residence
Divinely, this thickness triggers Life.
While we remain so firmly formed
Momentarily, as a You and an I
I say Revel! Revel in this Life's Gift
… and Touch.
Riptide of the Soul
Riptide of the soul under a deceptively calm surface
Lose my grip so easily, there's so very little
purchase
Just below communal glamour lies the light of our
inner star
Where we each go about the business of being what we
are
But what we are, are Human - just an animal that
predates
Upon itself, upon its children - many to wield the
hand of fate
And plenty more, the willing victims - no will to rise
to fight
Nothing but acquiescence when frozen in a prey's
fright
We write our apocrypha and work to make it so
Pretending that the story was writ so very long ago
Man's final Rapture, the hallowed righteous end
Blasphemy indeed, for this species to pretend
We keep being so Human we’ll still witness Wonder
Much more likely that we’ll blow ourselves asunder
Resettle among the flotsam of my daily show
Ride the surface carefully, a riptide lies below
Odd
Odd people I'm not sposed to see
Odd places I'm not sposed to go
Odd ways I'm not sposed to be
Odd things I'm not sposed to know
No matter what others may say
I'm who, what, where I am today
My odd path does surely twist
My odd thoughts to some, absurd
Some swear that I never listen
That I haven’t Heard the Single Word
Their incessant babble, a fitful wind
At my odd end I’ll be my own odd friend
Life’s Wine
Sometimes there comes
to one so hungry
A melancholy resonance
Sublime Wonder prevails:
Tip to the river’s skin
a willow leaf shivers
Touching once, again
Timed to deep currents
Laconic quiet
tuned to time’s passage
Not awaiting any future
Nor dwelling on any past
Life’s wine
spills slowing from my glass
I do not reach to catch the wine
I cannot staunch the flow of Time
This very acceptance brings the pause
That sets my soul a-shimmering.
Michael E. Theroux,
pen name ‘Teru’ - Writes incessantly
from his home office in Northern California. His careers span includes
classically trained botanist, environmental health specialist, green energy
developer and resource recovery web site editor. A life-long word smith, his publications have primarily been professional papers supporting these careers;
a full CV is available upon request, and see samples on our industrial web site
Teru Talk. Now at 72, Michael has done a hard
pivot from hard science, and is seeking publication of his cache of art
writings, including around 400 poems, stories, memoirs, vignettes and two
novels (one complete, the other in progress). Some of his works may now be seen
in Down in the Dirt, Ariel Chart, 50WS, Academy of the Heart and Mind and the
marvellous Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
Beautiful, soft, soothing.
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