Tag Archives: hope

Spelunking

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I got lost in the cave again
even though this time
I came prepared
with ropes and ties
headlamp and map
and a full canteen.

What got me out before
was mere curiosity
about what awaited
around the next bend
if I just persevered.

Before,
I had guides.
There was always
a candle in the distant dark
a small crack of bright yellow
or a whispering breeze
inviting a path
up, up, and out again
to the warm stars
and soft greenery.

This time
there is no candle.
Just night so thick and weighty
I could touch it
of only my fingers obeyed.
Just claustrophobic silence
like the utter stillness
that never knew sound
before the big bang.

This time
I have neither direction nor hope
my limbs are exhausted
and my canteen is dry.
This time
I can only wait
for the punishing rocks
to move on their own.

This time
my curiosity is spent.
This time
what will rescue me
from this unending, dank doom
is neither hope nor faith
but the child’s insistence
that this story must
must
have a better ending than this.
That this book cannot end
with my lonely, mossy bones
lost
in a cave.

© S. Rinderle, January 2023

(** If someone you know is struggling with depression, or has expressed a desire to end their life, please don’t give them a phone number or tired cliché. Please take them seriously and sit with them in the cave, or stay with them until you can find a way out, together.)

Castaway

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If you survive
when the ship capsizes,
if you avoid
the hulking masts and jagged iron
as they plummet into the sea
like panicked missiles,
if you reach the surface
and burst into air
amid flaming flotsam,

what then?

You swim
you bob
you float on your back
you pray for rain
you stay awake.

And if the currents are merciful
you meet an island to cling to
where soft shores
cradle your weary, seasick head
fresh coconut springs
revive your withered throat
and massive stones
ground your cracked, salty feet
and grant refuge
from the threat of the deep.

But even the bravest isle
is no haven
from planetary maelstrom.
Eventually it too erodes
and you find yourself
afloat again
courageously paddling
towards a hopeful horizon
to the next friendly island
til the cataclysm
destroys it
too.

If your terrorized muscles
stop responding to faith
and answer only to survival,
what then?

What now?

Now that years are counted in decades
joints weakened by effort
skin furrowed by worry
eyesight blurry
and optimism spent
on too many gambles lost?

Perhaps the time has come
to mistrust the tides
and forgive depleted limbs.

Perhaps it’s time
to grow gills

time
to surrender
and breathe
underwater.

© S. Rinderle, January 2023

Crumbs

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I will no longer
eat your crumbs,
no longer nibble in vain
trying to fill my hollow belly
with the sad scraps you toss
from your barren table.

You made me a beggar
then scorned my hunger.
You starved me in your house
then accused me of malnourishment
and denied me alms.

Your lying morsels
tempt me into hoping
a meal is coming
while your kitchen is bare.
They trick me into believing
crumbs are the only food
despite the orchards outside.
They train me into accepting
only crumbs
as my lot.

But crumbs are mean appetizers
masquerading as a feast
that starve more cruelly
than a fast.
Crumbs are rotting remnants
of someone else’s banquet.

Wandering ravenous
in the village dark,
the haze finally revealed
other houses
with open doors.
I met skilled cooks
with stocked pantries
flaming hearths
and generous hands.

Now that I’m fed
I’m safe enough
to stop begging for trash,
free enough
to reject your miserly dregs.

Now that my cells know nourishment
I’ve no need
to haunt your impoverished table
ever
again.

© S. Rinderle, November 2022

Sunday morning stroll

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Grief is a Sunday morning alley
eerily quiet
in the early light
unclaimed baggies of dog shit
tossed about
overfilled dumpsters
of rejects
empty boxes
piled carelessly
cars parked partially
rocks strewn
from abandoned construction

in the soothing cool.

On Sunday morning
things look so different
from the dark drunken jubilation
of Saturday night.
More can be noticed –
visible dangers
that were missed
sweetness
that was hidden
surprising finds
among the refuse.
The still, quiet aftermath
allows a more balanced assessment
of the chaos.

The mess left by guests
after the party
makes the party no less festive
the guests no less welcome.
Yet we’re better equipped
to notice the toll
on Sunday morning.

Grieving
is like a Sunday morning stroll.
It awakens us
from our previous stupor
sheds a new angle of unfiltered light
on the familiar
introduces us
to new faces
reveals
what is emergent
or was always there
ignored
or once insignificant.

Grief is not a loss of love
but an exchange
of one love for another
the change
still disorienting,
vulnerable and tender.

Like a Sunday morning stroll
for night birds,
grieving shows us
that despite our fatigue
we can rise anyway
we might even find
our favorite fresh delights
more easily.

In fact, we may wonder
despite the difficulty of waking
why
don’t I do this
more often?

© S. Rinderle, September 2021

Legion

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It’s not you.
It’s the world.
It placed one more unnecessary straw
on your already-straining back
and you’ve fallen to your knees
in the sneering dust.
Anyone would.

It’s not you.
It’s the vampyrs.
They drank you dry
oblivious of their greed
leaving you
like a spent cicada shell
at season’s end
frozen on a branch
nothing left to give
waiting for the wind
to free your bones.

It’s not you.
It’s the Earth.
She wearies
of our practiced ignorance.
She turns
in her omnipotence
leaving us
to our consequence.

It’s not you.
Those tears are justified.
They announce your humanity.
They proclaim your sanity.
They say:
you’ve carried far more than your share
far longer
than was fair.
You cry
because no one else
is listening.
This empathic holding
is our birthright
yet now so rare
like a verdant island
in an ocean of flame
that once teemed
with life.

It’s not you.
The mobs froze like Mars
while you followed
your natural arc
like Venus.
You were the one that changed
while they flailed
in place.

It’s not you.
This cocooning
– this hiding away –
is your Spirit
yearning
for that which you
utterly need
but too long denied.
You can bear its absence
no longer.

It’s not you.
There’s only so much
one skin
can hold.
Your soul’s trajectory
bursts
at its seams.
But it’s not you.
You are no
solitary aviator.

I mean –
it’s not just you.
You are not crazy.
You are not alone.
We
are waking legion.

© S. Rinderle, October 2021

The greatest courage

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There exists no greater courage than this:
To love
with no guarantee of requitement
To trust
with no guarantee of safety
To strive
with no guarantee of success
To believe
with no guarantee of satisfaction.

There exists no greater valor than this:
To create
with no hope of immortality
To speak
with no hope of listeners
To stand
with no hope of change
To live
with no hope of survival.

We can scale murderous peaks
vanquish impossible Goliaths
in a hostile arena
run fast as a gazelle
with steel blades for feet
migrate whole civilizations
and rebuild entire cities from the scourge
of plague or maelstrom.

Yet there exists no greater courage than this:
to allow the heart
to be our ever-changing compass
faith our engine
and divine Wisdom
its fuel.

© S. Rinderle, 4/20/20

Tethered

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You make cigarette smoke
tasty
drunken nights sacred
and faith justified.

You give me space for anger
my insistence on lies
wrapped around
your awkward truth.

Your long, sinewy arms
have been there all along
snug
around my torso
as my entire ribcage
breathes.

Your long, sturdy legs
hold you up
as you navigate a treacherous world
uncertain
yet they always
bring you back.

You are a love in slow motion
a benign hurricane
that took months to build.
I didn’t know you were coming
but I see there’s no need
to board up my windows.

I want to bury myself in your hair
not like a schoolgirl
nor a mother —
like a she-wolf in a meadow
splayed out in the sun.
Somehow you always
smell like home.

I never thought
you’d say yes
never thought you’d say
you missed me
ten minutes after you left
Never thought
you missed me at all.

I could bask
in your amber eyes
for days
not getting lost
but being found.
This is not worship –
it’s grace
we meet halfway
in the space
between.
There’s always something
to say.

You make the distasteful
tolerable
traits I loathe elsewhere
I adore in you
not because I’ve abandoned myself
but because you make it worth it.
I will spend
one of my remaining heartaches
on you.

You require no collar
or leash.
No matter where you go
or how far you wander
we’re already tethered
at the heart.

© S. Rinderle, 4/4/20
Published in Fixed and Free Poetry Anthology 2021.

Echo

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You remind me of someone
I’ve never met
like a memory
I can’t fully recall
that makes me question
whether it was lived
at all.

He is elusive like mist
that fogs my vision
but avoids my grasp
dissolving with every advancing step.
He is evasive like an echo
that beckons
but fades
as soon as I reach the place
where I heard his voice
calling me.

My phantom groom,
you are compelling and necessary
like gravity
so I wander in search of your soul
pulling the masks off promising strangers
looking for your eyes
shouting:
Yes! This is Him!
I recognize this feeling!
I think:
Finally!
At last
I can put down my walking stick
remove my own mask
and rest
entwined with my beloved
at our wedding hearth.

Yet after a few drinks and dreams
I realize
he is not you
and I cannot make him be.

But that one fleeting taste
so exquisite
the waiting so eternal
I simply cannot return
to death
and hollowness
so I cling
to hopelessness
pretending I can live
without you
pretending I can live
on these sorry scraps.

I seek their embrace
out of loneliness
but I know it’s just an oasis
in the desert of your absence.

My Love,
I have been away from home
far too long.
Please recall me
from exile
for I cannot find you here
and my arms weary
of trying to hold space
around your constant
and inexplicable
void.

© S. Rinderle, Feb 2019 – Jan 2020

Resolution

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I am resolved to sweetness
to waiting for what’s next
to being pliable like bamboo
to dropping the oars

I am resolved to look Beloved in the eyes
to soften my gaze
to allow the rattling sabers
and mushroom clouds
to pass through me
like the rainbow prism
passes through glass

I am resolved to wait like stone
cool at night then warming with the sun
discerning between those who can
and those who can’t,
letting them go

I am resolved to soften my shoulders
as well as my resolve
letting everything in
but keeping only jewels
relishing the long loneliness
in between.

© S. Rinderle, 12-17-19

Structured Perspective

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I want to look at old people
the way I look at old buildings
I want to remember
they weren’t made this way
Windows weren’t always dull and broken
Eyes not always vacant and cloudy
Walls weren’t always chipped and faded
Skin not always flaking and bent
Grounds weren’t always
littered, cracked and overgrown
Life not always wild and untidy

Maintenance takes time and effort
A newly painted surface requires little care
like the fresh, plump cheeks of childhood
With the passage of time
routine becomes major renovation
and likewise
Yet it doesn’t have to be

Old buildings and old people
aren’t what they once were
But why must they be viewed as ruin?
Broken windows frame playtime for birds
Peeling paint invites light
and awe of texture
Hooded, flecked eyes
twinkle in remembrance
and flash with insight
Wrinkled faces
declare the accumulation
of deep thoughts
and thousands of repeated smiles.

Time is an unmatched artist
Sculpting all structures
shifting perspective
For all life is meant to be
wild and untidy.

© S. Rinderle, May 2015, Cinque Terre, Italy