In moments of anxiety,
self-ruination,
fear and agitation,
it’s easier to allow
my soul to sit up straight,
grab the prefrontal oars
of memory,
and propel my canoed body,
over the raging rapids
of today’s gorge.
Frightened, I lie still,
play dead to the malarky,
but my spirit’s amidship
balancing my old Bidarka,
tracking me straight through
each tongue-tied tempest,
and my heart,
well-below the waterline,
outrigs itself with honesty.
I dugout this moment.
Now, I trust intuition’s bow
to dig on, forward stroke,
conquer whirring white waters,
eskimo roll my soul,
and when I reach
open waters,
wet exit my kayak,
a flourish of triumph,
my bearings safely returned.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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