While there are many powers that I lack
and lacking of these powers has been hard,
providing ammo for despair’s attack,
a burning woe by which my mind was charred,
I’ll dwell here on the powers I possess,
the powers that I wish to use while able,
the powers I can cultivate to bless
as though a feast set on a dinner table.

Before commencing, I will pause to note
the grief of lacking powers I desired,
the grief in which I’ve sunk as if a boat,
the grief in which I’ve felt myself hell-fired.
I don’t have power to control my thoughts,
the daily torrents streaming through my brain,
of thickness clogging consciousness like clots
or speeding through my mind as though a train.

I don’t have power to control my feelings,
unpleasant and unnerving though they be,
that seem to block the sky like leaky ceilings,
beyond which it is often hard to see.
I can’t control the hurtful acts of others,
keep them from harmful things they do or say,
can’t alter what’s immutable that smothers
lives around the globe by night and day.

I can’t be sure of what each day will bring,
to me and to the others in the world,
when fate will cut each life as though a string,
what new developments will be unfurled.
I can’t be sure of what it’s all about,
the answers to the questions all possess
of mysteries that we can’t figure out
of which we just can speculate or guess…

But I can dig as if for buried treasure
through difficulties, finding deep in them
a jewel of worth impossible to measure,
unearthing hidden joy as though a gem.
And I can play an instrument, my voice,
or others, like a piano or keyboard,
and singing, playing, I can make the choice
to hold as tether every passing chord.

And I can use my two arms for embracing,
with strength that sustenance has given limbs,
and pause from worldly hub-bub ever-racing,
to fill life’s cups of living to their brims.
And I can work to heal the wounds I’ve gotten
from others or myself since childhood,
and not turn bitter like a fruit that’s rotten,
but renovate my mental neighborhood.

And I can reach for life like trees to light,
immensity beyond what’s in my head,
and lessen mine or someone else’s plight,
and grow new foliage as old is shed.
And I can speak the truth of what I live,
including of an illness with a stigma,
the truth I feel the best that we can give,
commiserating through life’s deep enigma.

With humor, I can make a smile blossom,
and even often cause a laugh to bloom,
lightheartedness, like sunshine, being awesome,
dispelling sometimes existential gloom.
And I can play, though grown, as if a kid,
with wonder, learn, discover and explore,
try doing different things I never did,
to boldly grow as I’ve not grown before.

And, like the universe, I can create,
fill voids of darkness of no thing to see
with life-filled worlds and stars that scintillate,
each work of art a kind of galaxy.
Embracing life the way it is at present,
not chasing phantoms of the way it was,
I can make the most of what’s unpleasant,
the way the wisest of the cosmos does.

And I can celebrate with gratefulness,
and even in the midst of sufferings,
life’s wonders in their stunning boundlessness,
the beauties and the blessings each day brings.
And I can listen to the many things
that others in the universe may tell,
with openness respectful of all beings,
and wish that every one of them be well.

And, like a honeybee, I have the power,
although I feel that to a pit I’ve fallen,
to cultivate some sweetness from life’s flower,
collecting nectar while relaying pollen.
And if by helplessness I feel devoured,
I can recall that also I’m empowered.
While there are powers, tons, I haven’t got,
I can, with ones I have, live, give, a lot!

Mario A. Pita
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