Wanting Less

Of late, I feel my doings
with humanity are strained.
The banter, laughter, platitudes,
the pleasantries are pained.

The gloss, the glitter, song and dance,
which used to be my joy
feel flat, tasteless, not-me now.
They seem a tired ploy.

It's odd. I find I'm wanting less:
less stuff, less sound, less talk;
less of loveless making love,
more tending to the flock,

less touchy-feely feeling less,
more digging way down deep,
less common-place unkindness,
more nights when I can sleep,

Less walling off my true self,
more true selves to greet,
less us making war on them,
more halfway-theres to me.

The old amusements don't amuse.
I trash my sad old stories,
weep farewell to childhood dreams,
wave bye to faded glories.

Downsize, clean house, simplify,
until I am set free.
Let loose the butterfly inside
to live exquisitely.

Yes, my small self still feels stressed
by others in the hive.
But how they grow when I let go,
the whole world comes alive.

Less is more and more is less:
that's my new attitude.
I live to grow into the flow
practicing gratitude.

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