Sometimes
Life seems
Like a polluted river
I swim through the debris
The rocks and shards of glass
Unscathed
Other times
I come up
With only minor injuries
Thankful for small miracles
Conditional Survival
As I look ahead I see few
Placid pools
Swirls and foam, turbulence
Abound
The shores
The boundaries of this ordeal
Offer little enticement
As the rushing ride
Exhilarates and entices
The swim becomes a thrill
The dangers lost or forgotten
I’m sucked below and bruise
I rise above and breathe
And once again
Grin with gratitude
As I spy my companions
As I rush down river
To link arms with them
By J.L. Rosa
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There was a time when I would jokingly take credit for things my friends had made, especially good, savory dishes. "I made that," I would say laughing. Sometimes I would fool people 'til the end of the party. Problem was, when I did make something good, no one believed me. They knew me as the incorrigible liar.
This afternoon my husband laughed when I told him I was going to take ownership of his poem. But, I can't even lie in jest about it. He wrote this. He's always been the poet in the family. I fell in love with him, long before I fell in love with poetry. And I'm so glad he's writing again.
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(Submitted to One Shot Poetry)
