of sound advice:
if you believe a thing
to be the truth, don’t keep it out
can’t stand the dark.
It pines if locked up tight,
and sometimes will grow sick and die,
and then, you’ve got
mere memory and dust.
How sad! That your foundation stone
It’s truth, by god,
piece of eternity,
and you’ve just left it there to die.
29 APR 2011
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
The walls may rot, collapse, be crushed or fall,
but new dimensions are formed at each fold;
while these temporal illusions may pall,
our grasp will always far exceed our hold.
Brick and bone and flesh may turn to dust,
but from such chaff arises life anew;
the oxidizing properties of rust
serve to remind us payment must come due.
But is that molecule of payment lost?
Or does it simply seek another form?
Why mourn a thing that truly never dies,
but trusting evolution, pays the cost?
A tree that burns to ash, to keep us warm,
transfers energy to another guise.
19 DEC 2002