She’s sleeping there on the chaise,
on her face a gentle look;
dreaming no doubt of flowers,
and quiet hours with a book.
Her eyes are closed, her heart eased,
and I am pleased that she rests;
May her dreams be sweet and kind,
and may she find peaceful hours.
When she wakes in the morning
may the day bring her gladness
filled with laughter and sunshine
and a decline in sadness.
I listen to her soft snore,
wanting no more than her joy;
she fills where I am nothing,
and brings happiness sublime.
01 APR 2004
Alas, my head is bruised and hurt
My hands are filled with ash and dirt
The fire has gone out in the sink
And there is not enough to drink
Perhaps the sun has lost its flare,
But as for me, I couldn’t care
The world is turned to shades of creme
And melted fact and sense with dream
And willy-nilly ‘cross the tiles
The jester dances as he smiles
The king is slumped upon the throne
His sceptre limp, his shoes unshone
And where the queen is, no one tells
But something in the kingdom smells
The knights have turned to lonesome days
And all the banners’ greens to grays
Perhaps the cook has spiked the stew
With who knows what, for who knows who?
And flouncy-bouncy ‘cross the room
The jester dances with the groom
Upon the hearth, three parrots sit
And gambol in raw seeds and shit
They cannot speak except in rhyme
And constant, crawk out “What’s the time?”
A raucous noise they raise ’til dawn
Without a thought to dwell upon
Perhaps the pages have all turned
And left the roast beast on to burn
And tripsy-dipsy ‘cross the stage
The jester incants like a mage
My head is filled with nonsense stuff
Cracked teacups, straw and milkweed fluff
The chairs have taken up their arms
And forced the maids to sell their charms
Beside the moat, Ophelia waits
Insulting those with balding pates
And deep within the prison’s keep
The prince is trying hard to sleep
And onesy-twosy ‘cross the hall
The jester’s tripped and had a fall.
01 APR 2004
If someone listens intently, patiently
for something beyond audible sensation
each moment becomes sacred silence
embracing the hearer into being
If someone watches quietly, carefully
for something behind visible perceptions
each vista becomes secret beauty
embracing the viewer into making
If someone ponders honestly, tirelessly
on something beyond logical reflection
each finding becomes useful knowledge
embracing the thinker into balance.
01 APR 2004
Before the first ray of morning sun comes
over the muttering lips of the sleeping world
(like the last soft warm breath of a restful sleep
is released from the tight grasp of that little death)
and there are not yet schedules to be met,
children to be shuffled off sullenly to school,
arrangements to be made, broken and remade,
the drudgery of household chores still untackled,
I listen in that dark and peaceful lull
to the gentle sound of her breathing next to me,
warm and serene under the sheets and blankets,
cocooned like a butterfly, just dreaming of flight.
31 MAR 2004
The path that we’re traveling
has today only begun.
So don’t start unraveling,
don’t think the whole race is run.
To enjoy the adventure,
we’ll take time with what we see,
cast away old indentures
and seek past what seems to be.
Though each step seems surrender
to some distant unknown goal,
for our souls we’ll find provender
by acknowledging the whole.
There’s no end, no conclusion
to this journey that we make;
cast off that sad illusion
and each mile is no mistake.
So think not destinations
but of time to live and laugh.
Let dreams come to gestation
while we’re traveling the path.
31 MAR 2004
J ust give me a moment
O f your time, and together, we’ll try to
H onestly explore the taste of
N ew wine in old wineskins,
L ight cigarettes with old matches, and
I n the process, attempt to learn something about
T he way the world has shaped us. In the quiet
Z en of here and now, where
E verything, like Shroedinger’s Cat, both is and is
N ot, let us wander wide-eyed and amazed,
B oth expecting nothing, and
E verything, seeking for a new
R eality. Let understanding be our
G oal, this time around. On the next trip, who knows?
J ury’s still
O ut. Will they
H ang him, or
L ikely they’ll call him
I nsane, either way.
T ruth is, the
Z eitgest that
E nvelopes this time will
N ot accept or
B elieve the possibility
E xists for a
R eality outside its chosen
31 APR 2004
Well, it’s that time again. Time to revisit, in alphabetical order, the poetic forms as identified in Lewis Turco’s The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics. Starting with today’s poem, we’ll visit all the traditional verse forms, starting with lyric Poetry, then progressing to dramatic and narrative Poetry.