Waiting for Zen

When will it come?

To sit quite contented,

With my feet firmly on the floor.

Counting breaths,

And nothing more.

When I was a child, I wanted to be an adult, because adults could stay up late.

When I raised little ones, I looked forward to a time when I could have a few solitary moments to myself.

When I was inside, the rain running rivulets in the yard, I longed for sunny summer days.

 When it was hot and dry, the orange sky filled with smoke from wildfires; I looked forward to the cooling savior rains.

When I was besieged by the chatter of the city, I longed to camp near the spray of a gentle creek.

When we camped, I wanted to be rid of those jabbing rocks beneath me and sleep in my own comfortable bed.

When I was in the boat fishing and on the water far too long, I wanted to be on shore.

Now that I am at home and indoors, I remember longingly the many days salmon fishing on a blue-gray endless ocean.

When I was at a party, I longed to be alone; and when I was alone, I longed for people

When we were working, I looked forward to retirement.

When will it come?

To sit quite contented

With my feet firmly on the floor.

Counting breaths

And nothing more.

Zinnias

Zinnias, like us all,

Randomly tossed together seeds in the same pot.

Close.

Some flowers stand tall.

Some small peeking out at the edges

Colors in pinks from pale to darker rose,

A few in salmon.

Some with one row of almost horizontal petals.

Other petals curled u- shaped ,

With layer upon layer reaching toward the sky.

All blooms laced with yellow stamens,

Some bright some barely yellow,

With pink center pistils.

One tiny blossom, with  bent stem,

Leaves furled and  curled from striving but surviving under an adjacent table.

Still blooming,

All the same.

Leaves basic v- shaped,

 But some light, some dark green,

 One leaf has holes where something nibbled.

All have some dried leaves from a hot day when we didn’t water.

After a brief summer rain, all look cheery,

Even,

In the same pot!

At Sea

I've waited for an inspirational shaft of light

 to break through my dark clouds of creative doubt. 

My poem's first rejection, family's disinterest and self-talk

toss me into a rowboat on a sea of negativity.

I could search for a lighthouse of saving metaphors.

Instead, I wrap myself in a blanket of pity, and

 imagine throwing my poems overboard.

They swirl down. My sweat-ink dissolves

 as the pages smudge

and flutter in their final throes.

And I forgo creating them forever!

Or

 maybe I should just keep writing.