Monthly Archives: April 2011

Not Right: a cinquain

A bit
of sound advice:
if you believe a thing
to be the truth, don’t keep it out
of sight.

For truth
can’t stand the dark.
It pines if locked up tight,
and sometimes will grow sick and die,
or fade

away;
and then, you’ve got
mere memory and dust.
How sad! That your foundation stone
should end

like that.
It’s truth, by god,
piece of eternity,
and you’ve just left it there to die.
Not right.

29 APR 2011

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New Day: a choka

A new day is born:
look, how the world starts again;
its still form awakes
from an evening’s slumber
and shakes the sleep from its eyes.

In the quiet hours
before its hum becomes roar,
the whole of life breathes:
a low, gentle rush of air
that fills creation anew.

28 APR 2011

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Wounded to the Core: Chaucerian stanzas

If you would comprehend the world at all,
imagine this: a place so pure and wild
it knows just spring, not summer yet, or fall.
Like a capricious, spoiled and errant child
it knows not between sacred and defiled,
but treats all things with equal joy and lust
until their centers start to rust.

Once wounded, everything betrays its core;
the earth, no different from a broken limb
that was fed by the tree, but is no more.
Inside the wound, there is no chance or whim;
just living and then death, which is not grim,
but time to put one book back on the shelf
and start another version of one’s self.

28 APR 2011

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The End is Near: a chant royal

The end is near, and what is worse,
it looks so very much the same
as the beginning. How perverse!
We’d best start handing out the blame
before the opportunity
is past, and we are forced to flee
elected our own scapegoats. How
I wish we’d planned much better, now.
We’re stuck with everything, it seems,
and all those swords we forged from plows
have severed us from our own dreams.

The end is coming, like a curse
or the last seconds of a game
we played half-assed; seeming to nurse
an old war wound, we acted lame,
and in the name of being free
insisted all should “be like me”
and praised the sweat on every brow
that bowed down to our sacred cows.
We’ve ruined everything; the cream
has curdled and is worthless now.
We’ve lost access to our own dreams.

The end is on us, and the purse
we thought to win, the wealth and fame,
has dissipated; while we nurse
our young so long they grow up tame,
and “being all that they can be”
decide on “nothing” as the key
to great success in life, somehow.
We’ve earned it all; but what it means?
No clues, until our final bow:
that fond farewell to all our dreams.

It is the end; no furrowed brow
lost deep in thought will help us now.
The fabric’s worn, split at the seams;
as does the tree, so goes the bough.
we’ve nothing left of all our dreams.

27 APR 2011

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Contraband: a chantey (shanty)

We never see the sight of land
except to bury treasure;
the nights we roll upon the sea
are numbered beyond measure.

Our toil and strife is never done,
our sleep is but an hour;
we cross the mighty waterways
by wind and muscle power.

Through rain and wind we travel on
in search of gold and riches;
and learn to keep our balance when
the deck savagely pitches.

The goal: to rule the seven seas,
and take what spoils we wishes;
to see our enemies impaled
or sleeping with the fishes.

Some swabs may call it contraband;
it’s swag, or spoils or booty.
To claim the biggest prize of all
is not our right, but duty.

26 APR 2011

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