Lord, thou knows better than I know myself that I am growing older and will some day be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten everybody’s affairs. Make me thoughtful, but not moody, helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but thou knows Lord that I want a few friends at the end,

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details, give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others’ pains, but help me endure them with patience.

I dare not…

As far back
as anyone could remember,
the people of the town
built houses for each other,
sheds, truth be told, crafted
with the hammer of judgement
and the nails of assumed
superiority; houses too small
for a full breath, too cold
for the precociousness of hope,
secured with heavy bolts
of dark warning and fear.

Yet in this town, as in
countless towns everywhere,
lives continue to be lived,
families formed, futures built,
histories made and recorded.

Yes, but wait, you may say.
What about love?
What about compassion?
Do not lose heart, my friend,
for love, in all its guises,
gratefully knows forever,
the trick to pick our locks
and let herself in.

© 2014 Dennis Ference

“Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough.”― Mark Twain

Sometimes I drink more than I need
letting myself drown in memories
that serve no purpose

Sometimes I linger longer than I need
between the staying still
and plunging forward without fear

Sometimes I write more than I need
filling up notebooks with revelations
profound to only me

Sometimes I laugh more than I need
or scream or dance or cry or dream

No,
more than I need
could just be the perfect amount
for this short life

It’s cherry season here in Michigan so I want to try a recipe in patience called cherry bounce that I discovered through my good friend at incahootswithmuddyboots. Any recipe that includes bourbon reminds me of the Mark Twain quote above that I read every Christmas season in my mother’s cookbook as the first instruction for…

You ask me to solve for the answer
to the problem of xplus y.
What do you mean the answer?

There is no the answer.
It’s just an illusion of permanence.
By the time I measure y
the x has already changed.

It’s like trying to measure a shadow
cast against a sun lit field
on a day when cumulus puffs float
across a Caspian sky.

Don’t ask me to give you the answer.
when there are millions of answers
and no answer at all,
simultaneously, always.

Don’t ask me to cling to a now that is fleeting;
ask me to embrace the movement.

Image from pixabay