First Snow

first snow
white oblivion
whispers
to sleeping earth

hush…

let go
frantic mind
surrender

hush…

forgive your past
your sins
your separation

hush…

a blanket
of serenity

hush

white oblivion
cuddles me
in love’s eternity

first snow
melts,
drips
slowly
down the face
of my soul

hush…

Tio Stib

2014, 2019

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My Dementia Diary 87 – Harold!

“Harold!” shrieked the voice across my neighbor’s yard.

‘Harold, get in here!”

I and certainly everyone else in the neighborhood now knew that Harold was being called. To my surprise, the man himself, standing on the other side of our common fence watering his flowers, did not seem to notice. In fact, there was not the slightest trace of recognition that he’d heard his summons.

Smiling, Harold said, “that corn of yours is looking mighty fine, almost ready to pick.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Never had much luck with vegetables, so I just stick with flowers,” he added, smiling with pride at his little patch of pansies.

Harold was retired, had a nice head of white hair, excepting for the bald spot which was always covered with some sort of hat, and he was blessed with an eternally pleasant personality. I never knew a mean word to escape from his mouth. I always enjoyed our over the fence chats, particularly when his wife was not nagging him.

“Harold, get in here right now!”

 As he continued drowning his flowers, I realized that while anyone within a block of his house could hear the wife’s belligerent commands, Harold had tuned her out. Not a hint of displeasure, a grimace, nothing showed on his face but that benign smile. Yet his hearing was fine, as evidenced by our continued conversation.

“Fine summer day, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Harold, now!”

I think of Harold’s beatific tranquility when my wife’s pestering neediness is about to drive me nuts. I imagine myself standing beside him watering flowers with a big grin on my face.

But, I’ve yet to achieve Harold’s state of Zen peace.

A few years after his wife met her demise, Harold passed on as peacefully as he’d lived. Out driving, he had a heart attack and his car slowly slowed and stopped against a power pole. I sometimes wonder if, as Harold approached those pearly gates, he heard a familiar voice yell out-

“Harold, get in here now!”

Does God have a sense of humor?

tio stib

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River of Words

River of Words

my life floats down a river of words
on paragraphs, syllables, tales once heard
they call out as I drift by
love and pain, both truth and lies

emphatic “yes!”
a stolid “no.”
the overused, unhelpful “so”
“goodbye”
“forever”
“I’ll be there”
“why not?”
“you said”
“I don’t care”
“quiet, please”
“how can I think?”
“have you ever seen the sky so pink?”

the words speed up
the rapids roar
fearful sounds from times before
then I’m lost and swept away
chaos and cacophony
gulping right and spitting wrong
gasping as I’m thrown along
shouting voices, “me! me! me!”
screaming insecurity
then bashed on conflict’s argument
my heart gives out
my soul is spent

in drowning plight
I see a dove
one final thought
remember

love

the verbal roar falls far behind
consciousness comes back to mind
as grace, sweet heaven, sets me free
and quiet waters welcome me

my life floats down a river of words
heading towards a voice unheard
yet whispers on the waves call me
“you can, dear one, you can be free”

love

love

love

tio stib

2017, 2019

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Insomnia

there are moments when
I dream in peace
a mind released to roam
then others when
the clock grinds on
and night becomes a tomb

I lay now in eternal night
awaiting mindless deep
a craving need to somehow get
a decent hour’s sleep

tio stib
2015, 2018, 2019

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The Challenge of Climbing Mountains

most think the challenge of climbing mountains
is reaching the top
sweating
aching
heart pounding
pushing past fear
step by step
to finally stand victorious
in the rare air
above the clouds of ordinary being
surrounded by distant views
of unclaimed summits

but
with each descending step
the real work begins
returning to the valley of everyday existence
the spirit begins to shrink
atrophy
for it can no longer be fed
by ordinary life

the real challenge of climbing mountains
is never surrendering the summits of our dreams
to stand alone
bold and free
with only mountaintops
for company

tio stib, 2016, 2019

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Breakfast of Memories

for fifty years they’d each returned
back to the same cafe
gathered round the same table
these small town knights
slowly sipping coffee
reviving the Camelot of their youth
alive again
in a breakfast of memories

stories swirled
more smiles than scars
the pranks, the mindless adventures
girlfriends real, love imagined
mountains climbed and races won
friends recalled and gone

they talked of how they’d loved this place
had never thought to leave
but life and time had swept them off
to chase their separate dreams

not one head turned to watch them go
the gray men and their ghosts
and silence roared to fill the void
of legends lost to most

tio stib

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A Season for Adventuring

rocketing through a cacti forest
past towering sentinels frozen in moonlight
night air and music blasting through the cockpit
singing with Cat Stevens
Riding on the peace train

I’m speeding into wildness at 3 a.m.
crossing into the unknown
road tripping
on the loose

Fall has called me forth
to a season for adventuring

ghosting through the morning mist
as day slides from gray to gold
I’m pulled by hunger into a small cafe
cradling a warm coffee cup
I spy the famished hiker beside me
demolishing a plate full of pancakes

he turns and smiles

Fall is freedom
the work is done, the harvest in
I’m on the road again

mornings are cool now
Fall brings a sharpened awareness
a time to wipe fog from my glasses

as growing sunlight melts shadows from the river
cold water swirls about my shivering thighs
I cast to a distant riffle
the line lays out softly
the fly disappears in a splash

lost in the sweet perfume of pine sap
following a dusty trail of memories
the buzz below me sounds familiar

Jeez!

Damn! Helluva rattlesnake!

all those blue highways
all those maps, long before GPS
all those little country stores
all those stops to buy a soda, asking directions

where the heck is Boggan’s Oasis?

and the magic of those unexpected moments

chasing wild horses through a sea of purple sage
eyeing eagles falling from heaven in their mating aerobatics
cresting a final ridge to discover Shangri-La
an azure lake sparkling in an alpine meadow

immersed
alone
in a hot springs pool
steam rising into nothingness
feeling forever in all directions
soul steeped in gratitude
as sky slips from gold
to pink
to gone

I will not travel these roads again
but they will haunt my heart when
once again
Fall calls the vagabond
to a season for adventuring

tio stib

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