Daily Archives: April 7, 2014

The Old Guitar: a love song

They say you are inanimate,
but I believe they lie.
The world is made of tiny stuff
that never quite stands still;
and as your presence here suggests,
this world is where you’re from.

They say you have no feelings,
but just who are they to know?
Each sound creates endless vibrations
that may never end;
and as they reach you, you may change
despite no outward sign.

They say you are an object,
without soul, but they are wrong.
Because a thing eludes detection
doesn’t prove it gone;
and anyone who hears your voice,
and listens, understands.

They say you once were living,
but are now dead. They are fools!
For life is one long single thread,
split up by space and time;
we may be separate for now,
but only for a while.

They say you are inanimate,
and do not breathe! For shame!
Without you there is no inhale
or exhale. You are the air;
together, we create the songs
that fuel the universe.

07 APR 2014

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Out Back: an observation

The short grass under the spreading live oak
is mostly dead – a dappled green
stretch of dirt that seems to soak up
the shadows cast from the tree limbs
just starting to burst with new growth
this spring.

In this shade, gray squirrels and red-winged blackbirds,
bluejays and golden finches, too,
flit quickly to and fro between the feeders:
high on the black electric lines
one minute, then down into
the still dewy morning lawn the next,
grasping a brown seed or two in their black shiny
beaks, as their partners
and lovers
and children
sing merrily out from above,
“Come here, come quick! There’s food!”

06 APR 2014

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It Matters: a golden shovel

If thinking a thing made it so,
what’s real or not don’t matter much;
and what you get solely depends
on what you tend to dwell upon.

Why think in black and white, and small? In case a
jealous god might find your dream, see red
and underneath a too cruel wheel
crush and throw big ideas in a waste barrow,
like shards of broken pottery, glazed
and beautiful, but too small to fool with,
thrown out in the torrential rain
to be buried under mud and water?

Don’t worry, I’m beside
you; no crazy gods inhabit the
world that can turn a brave heart white.
No one here but us chickens.

After William Carlos Williams’ “A Red Wheeelbarrow”

5 APR 2014

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