Poem by Dan Stone:
This Cup
What’s landed here?
What lights, takes a sip
and points the way?
See how bright.
No clouded cheer.
No dreary curtains
dim this scene.
“How dare! You say.”
with all the work
there is to do,
with so much
gone astray,
claim this break,
desert the fray,
enjoy this cup.
There’s hard truth
in those words,
demanding, pleading
to be heard.
Sorrow, pain,
is knocking at the door
it seems, always.
And yet, it is a day.
It fell out of another
giving hand,
listened to another
morning’s call.
The sun grows tall.
Friends stop by,
pay their respects,
drop fresh-picked
lessons in my lap.
This pause breathes.
Air washes in.
Soothes like
honeyed tea,
leaves me feeling
I’ve been served.
It’s just a spell
I sit, wait a while
before I stand again.
It’s the nothing
that is everything.
It’s the less
that’s more,
the rest my
war-torn heart
needs to wake.
It’s my enough.
My stop and start,
my chance
to live to tell.
If that offends,
disturbs,
oh well.
This Cup
What’s landed here?
What lights, takes a sip
and points the way?
See how bright.
No clouded cheer.
No dreary curtains
dim this scene.
“How dare! You say.”
with all the work
there is to do,
with so much
gone astray,
claim this break,
desert the fray,
enjoy this cup.
There’s hard truth
in those words,
demanding, pleading
to be heard.
Sorrow, pain,
is knocking at the door
it seems, always.
And yet, it is a day.
It fell out of another
giving hand,
listened to another
morning’s call.
The sun grows tall.
Friends stop by,
pay their respects,
drop fresh-picked
lessons in my lap.
This pause breathes.
Air washes in.
Soothes like
honeyed tea,
leaves me feeling
I’ve been served.
It’s just a spell
I sit, wait a while
before I stand again.
It’s the nothing
that is everything.
It’s the less
that’s more,
the rest my
war-torn heart
needs to wake.
It’s my enough.
My stop and start,
my chance
to live to tell.
If that offends,
disturbs,
oh well.