There is no time to lose, soothsayers tell us;
Make hay! The sun will shine just for a while,
and once it’s gone, the world will turn to rust,
deprived of motive power, warmth, and style.
All things depend on endless solar power,
that radiating energy that fuels
the moments of our lives, the days and hours,
the actions of both conqueror and fool.
While artificial light may serve its purpose,
there is no life without organic heat
extending far beyond the simple surface
into the core, where being’s heart must beat.
Such darkness none on earth have ever known
like what will come when the sun’s fuse has blown.
1 JUN 2017
The world has not yet made its final twirl
around a sun still managing to burn;
the seasons, although changed somewhat of late,
continue with their ceaseless promenade.
Both wise and foolish prattle on no end,
with new results no different from before;
the civilized maintain the status quo
their barbarous ancestors stumbled on.
The end of days is always almost here;
soothsayers find new suckers without fail.
The young, in spite of things, still become old
and stop all their pretending at some point.
So put away those funeral shrouds for now.
There will be no apocalypse this week.
16 MAY 2016
Once upon a time (which often
means quite long ago,
but could be only yesterday
or even tomorrow)
in some far place, there lived a man
who thought the strangest thoughts,
chock-full of possibilities:
what ifs, could bes, why nots.
“What if the world ran differently?”
he wondered, off and on.
“If it could be just as it should,
would I be here, or gone –
And if perhaps the end is due,
why not be well-prepared,
and make my peace with everyone
to settle my affairs?”
And so he called on all his friends,
both those estranged and dear,
and spoke a word or two to each
in a voice low and clear.
“What if,” he said, “we both could change
one thing and make it right?
Could that small motion change the world
in just a single night?”
Each answered as they thought they should:
some laughed, some cried or sneered,
while others spoke of time and space
and others said, “Too weird!”
But each agreed the man a fool
to try too much, too late;
and told themselves to wait and see,
to leave things up to fate.
Then once upon a time, the world
came crashing to a close;
and all the wait and see was done,
all what ifs and suppose.
There was no more of what could be,
no tangents, no more plot,
unless you took time, like that man;
and if you could, why not?
17 DEC 2012
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