Michael Rastovich

Freewill is the branches

that grow as they please

Fate is the tree

that was always a tree.

The way we are going is nice enough but must we go so fast.

Could we go slow or stop a bit, and sit along the way.

It all seems to lose a little luster as we go speeding past.

Sometimes, in the garden of life, one should dead head the memories that have lost their bloom.

Everyone’s burning question is answered when at the begining of a disaster some fool leaps up and screams…

“We’re all going to die!

The meaning of life is everything that happens between now and the day you die.

The meaning of life is life it’s self, and …

“We’re all going to die!”

I once was young and stupid.

I am older now, but have retained my youthful stupid.

There is a place that I go whenever I paint. Within this place I am complete, fulfilled and at peace. Even as I am wrangling paint. Even as I struggle to understand what needs to be done there is an effortlessness. Because whatever I do, does not do much and if I do wrong, I am forgiven.

When I go to this place I remember who I am. As I see myself, God sees me also. And we sit for a bit, to admire our work.

The melting snow

will rinse away

the collected salts

of winter fallen tears

from roots, deep darkest

now thirsting for the spring.

As glacial droplet falls with glee,

another drop first tastes the sea.

All the waters in between,

are memories of what will be.

I get a notion by the feeling I get while thinking of something else.

From the wind of these wings, bits of what I was thinking about get swept up in it.

And the thing that I think with thinks, that he just wrote a poem.

 

A flute calls.

The echo pauses,

has it’s say

then fades away.