Questioning the Process
by Michael Doyle

In and out of our lives, we hear
Those thoughts around us that persevere.
Pushing and prodding us with possibility,
And we gravitate toward what has plausibility.

There are no promises, only process.
We take our nibbles here and there to test.
Hoping to find our dreams and not make a mess,
We reach out and are always hoping for the best.

Photographs breed their sets of memories,
All the moments spent with our loves and families.
We may not know the depth of experience,
But we document these  things in deference. 

Life is made to love and to travel.
Dreams are made to be caught as we are able.
But mostly, life best lived is to simply live,
Taking from it all the best that life can give.

Like jazz, life is a constant flow of improvisation
To be lived in just the right pocket of fascination.
Images ricochet with their perfect syncopation.
We voyage without necessarily knowing our destination.

Acting as if living moment by moment
Allows us to feel what we do, be it joy or torment.
We do what we do with every sense of validity
While knowing our degree of control has zero possibility

Of working out precisely as we actually mean.
This is the lost of life as a human being.
We pass through all of this within degrees of attention,
Sometimes in the manner of habit, sometimes in intention.

I hesitate to mention this inclination toward hesitation,
But so much of life amounts to an endless question.
Somewhere in the middle of all these chaotic bits of action
Is that point that we call it our satisfaction.

(c) May 29, 2025   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved