Art + Cancer

Poetry is my strongest form of artistic expression. I've been writing poetry for over 50 years. Here's a poem I wrote a couple of years ago that reflects both yearning and grateful acceptance of what's right in front of me.

What I Want

What I want is sacred ritual,
chanting, fire, strong tobacco,
animal spirits on the edge of darkness,
dancing until I collapse in ecstasy,
boundaries disappearing like morning mist,
thoughts scattered like windblown seeds,
consciousness replaced
by numinous awe and wonder.

What I get is a slow walk,
in bright sunshine under blue skies,
up a steep hill with good friends
on a late winter trail that cuts through
scrub oak, sage, manzanita, sudden meadows
flush with pink and purple shooting stars,
tufted orange poppies, rush-rose,
delicate chocolate lilies, an endless vista
of coastal ridges receding in all directions
like pebbled ripples in a quiet pond,
a mountaintop communion of strawberries,
apples, laughter and grateful talk.

What I want will have to wait.
What I get will more than do.

Will ... It is easy to see you have a gift - thank you for inviting all of us into your world and allowing each of us to share your vision ... Dennis(ProstateCancer.net Team)

Daily walks with my dog are part of my exercise and putting life in perspective routine. Here's a poem I wrote about a recent walk with Kona.

Here Comes the Sun

Leaving the house to walk Kona this morning,
I was surprised to see nearly clear skies waiting
for the sun to rise over the eastern ridge.
Just a few wispy clouds lazily floating
between the hillside and my vision,
soon to be warmed away by the day’s
gathering heat.

This year, the marine layer, June gloom,
lasted all the way through July. I had
grown accustomed to grayness,
the invisible particles of water
that would dampen my sweater,
refresh my face on our early walks,
nurture that soft melancholy
that feels so familiar and welcome at times.

But enough is enough. Let my mood match
the promise of sunny mornings,
the certain knowledge that nothing lasts forever,
that even hard times, mirrored by gray skies,
will dissipate like the morning mist.
Here comes the sun.