What the Soul Wants
this one swings
gracefully through
each stroke on the fairway
watches as her ball sails
upward in a long magic arc
to green perfection
determined to transform
her game to art
those pleasant folks
over on the porch
paint pastorals in oils
each summer on an island
of the coast of maine
recreating with
brushes and measured
color splashes
scenes that others have
set before to canvass
the group on the bus
heads off each spring
to the altitudes of a vast park
in montana with cameras
long lenses filters and tripods
to photograph big horn sheep
waking grizzly bears and bald eagles
ever hopeful for that one-in-a-million keeper
the quiet bunch full of awe in the dark
are gazing with their telescopes at stars
with never a prayer of leaving here to live on mars
the guy in the blue shirt chatting
at the card table in the rec room
at the assisted living center arrives
late for breakfast most mornings
having persisted in his room
to type the words of poems
spoken by muses who never
stop whispering verses in his head
these dancers step to the ballet bar
to limber up and perform
long after the stage has been withdrawn
those overlooked opera singers
have joined a methodist choir
rehearsing each evening in a church
a few really part-time actors
practice their comedic faces
in steamy bathroom mirrors
after bellowing in the shower
full of fragrances
from toiletries and soap
how wonderful how beautiful
to know so many give a few hours
of day's light to what the soul desires
without regard to the selections
the spirit elevates to flight
let cynics criticize and scowl
let those who must be cruel
to quell their inner pain
who feel alive only when
they harm another living being
who march to blaring nonsense trumpets
or measure their worth by what they can kill
viewing the world across the barrel of a gun
let them all be done with their calumny and theft
let them drown if drown they will
in their obesity and perversion
they know hate but little love
nothing of the joy of striving at an art
singularly unto itself its own measure of success
with the help of god
revealing an inner truth
and sharing it with others
i ask you now kind friends
when did a rose
ever despair of unfurling
forego wafting its sweet fragrance
in the bright air of morning
because a flower opened on the same bush
in the same garden last year and
the year before
the rose opens
in its good time
above the thorns
above the giving
and waiting soil
and we are all the better for it
whether we like it or not