Mud Puddles

from the time I was younger than three

I sought them out with glee

the watery dirty depths

of a mud puddle step

did so much to satisfy me

 

and later, ‘round the time of eight

I’d stop somewhere short of the grate

ahead of my siblings

with their gleaming white shoe strings

and plunge feet first to my fate

 

then somewhere late in my teens

much too serious for childish things

I carefully walked around

and with regret missed the sound

that splashing mud and water brings

 

now some years have passed

and I’ve earned at last

the right to jump again as I’m able

in imagined giants’ ladles

of water and mud broadcast

Heavy Hearts

Heavy hearts. Loads we cannot seem to carry and don’t know exactly how to put away.  Heavy hearts.  Grief so infinite, our very bones begin to groan while our bodies start to sway.  What do we do with the weight?

And there are times to weep with those who are weeping just as we would rejoice with those who rejoice. Times we join hands with strangers and are there for those so crushed with sadness that they have lost their voice.

Heavy hearts. Bending our knees and asking God for answers to answerless questions as we look to the sky.  How do you measure, the tears that could fill an ocean? Could they wash away the pain? It’s so hard to stand by.

There are times to weep with those who are weeping just as we would rejoice with those who rejoice. Times we join hands with strangers and are there for those so crushed with sadness that they have lost their voice.

Heavy hearts. Our shoulders are not big enough to carry that much weight; It was never part of our design. There is only one we know who could outshine that much evil and carry us through such dark days. Pray for comfort for those left here on earth, the ones who must wait to rejoin those who fell. Give away some love to someone you don’t know. As darkness threatens to overtake them, share the light.

There are times to weep with those who are weeping just as we would rejoice with those who rejoice. Times we join hands with strangers and are there for those so crushed with sadness that they have lost their voice.

Robin

i wonder if the robin who has landed in my yard
thinks the best worms are to be found here
thinks you know their bouquet is rarely excelled
not even by the ones in the big field with the oak
i wonder if he cocks his head and briefly looks at his
reflection in a cold glistening rain drop
hanging just barely from an extra tall blade of grass
does he hop up into the little dogwood and survey
the lawn from his lofty perch of four feet
and wonder if he should top off the worms with a few
miscellaneous bugs before he wings into
the big tree across the street and puts his beak into the wind
whistling through the bare winter branches
wonders if any of the other robins know it’s his yard
it doesn’t matter
he does

time’s money

if our table lamps shone money
and our pocketbooks held time
I’d not presume what’s mine is yours
or even what’s yours is mine
but should your lamp spend less brightly
or a hole in your wallet lose time
you’re not to fret or worry
always i’ll ensure you’re fine

© Joel Clayton Tipple and, Write here, Joel. 2012-13. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material and photographs without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Joel Clayton Tipple with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Thank you.