Sit Still

A simple directive,
loud and clear,
has rung in my head
down through the years.

Sit still. Sit still. Sit still.

There are tangles
for unsnarling,
slivers for removing,
cavities for filling.

Sit still. Sit still. Sit still.

The sermon's long;
the pew is hard.
The ferris wheel rocks
at the very top.

Sit still. Sit still. Sit still.

Then a strange bedfellow
invades my life,
begins a humbling fumbling,
a halting stumbling.

I mumble, crumble,
wrinkle, crinkle.
How dare that inner child in me
close the door and lose the key?

I sit so still, a stillness new.
Thoughts steep, begin to brew.
A stream of dreams
come coursing through...

dollops of carefree yesterdays;
a romp and roll down a grassy knoll;
a run on a faraway sandy beach;
a climb for an apple just out of reach.

Can slow and unsteady win the race?
Can slow and unsteady even place?
I remember the tortoise and the hare.
I'm tired of tortoising here and there.

I'll unearth a poem inside of me.
It will be my magic key,
to lift me up, to fling me free,
to end this loathsome lethargy.

I'll walk on water, float on air,
dance a jig, straddle a pig,
slalom a slope, overdose on hope,
care not a whit about time or place
or a probable landing with egg on my face;

a giggle, a squiggle,
a quiver, a shiver.
My piano's near,
my books, my pens.
They'll wait for me.
I'll wait for them.

I'll dare to care.
They'll wait for me.
I'm still til then,
but is this the stillness
it seems to be?

by Colleen Gordon

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
Last updated: