The world is changed each day; each morning sun
undoes as it is born.
From yesterday it lets the seed we sow
grow into what it needs.
But what has come before is gone and past;
last summer’s fading lawn
becomes the mulch that feeds the fresh grass blades
that fade so soon from view.
07 JUL 2017
“You must speak more plainly, sir,” he said,
“Most men ignore the complicated.
Their jaded minds and souls seek simple things:
weak drinks, brutal sports, the understated.”
“How much more sad that seems,” I made reply,
“to have no dreams than see them all fade.
A life made of no attribute but length.
I’d not have strength for such charade.”
“Aye,” he answered back, “’tis quite a showing:
all the time knowing there’s nothing more,
no real sense of self, nor point in being,
for years, seeing naught but shuttered doors.”
I spoke then, “What a statement on mankind:
that so few find a purpose beyond toil,
but slowly fade to nothing, spoiled and torn;
just born to return back to the soil.”
06 JUN 2017
An ancient lie
controls the world,
its flag unfurled
before the eye:
that might is right;
is that what light
the meagre flame
of truth reveals,
the winner steals
in a rigged game
won by a cheat,
claimed before birth,
so that true worth
seems like deceit.
06 MAY 2017
What may begin
as lose or win
soon starts to spin
outside that frame.
It seems like play,
this bob and sway:
a bright display,
almost a game,
a wild careen,
two wide extremes,
darkness and flame.
Always the chance
in the day’s dance
could leave you lame.
Each place you are,
gutter or star,
leaves its own scar.
No point in blame.
Thus every art
contains, in part,
true and false starts.
Each ends the same.
27 APR 2017
Let loose the chains that bind you to the past;
though they restrict, they cannot hold you fast.
The future is not set; no die is cast.
Whatever plans and schemes you make, don’t last;
tomorrow’s rain and sun mind no forecast.
What is to come, will come, no matter what;
a shut door cannot slow storms so vast.
29 MAR 2017
This is the morning of the first day;
nothing much remains of yesterday
except some dust in the clay on the wheel,
a flew flecks of shadow in the gray.
This is the morning of moving on;
what happens now is already gone,
chaff on today’s mown lawn blown by a breeze
that has no memory of the dawn.
This is the morning of here and now;
in past soil turned under by the plow
its seeds take hold, somehow, and make their way.
No pause for reminisce is allowed.
This is the morning of the new day;
what can remain of yesterday,
except the faint scent of decay that hangs
above fragrant, new blooms as they sway?
This is the morning of what will be;
let all yesterday’s visions go free.
What good their subtlety to you today?
Past boldness provides no guarantee.
27 MAR 2017
What’s fit to print is not news.
Our bitter, contrary views
are merely stuff we seek to use as new fuel;
like fools, we think we choose
to fight false with what is true,
wielding light that will burn through
the lies and mad bugaboo everywhere.
Now there’s a hopeful coup.
Hopeful, but not meant to be.
The real world seeks symmetry
and balance, but will not be rushed ahead
or led like a pony.
No, to make news in these days,
one must seek out different ways.
To prove a thing, you must amaze the wild mob;
a big job with no praise.
15 MAR 2017