I’m so tired of all this:
the endless sense of hopeless;
the evil creeping like mist;
the feeling ever helpless.
Walk out into the sunshine!
Find anything that’s divine:
some thing we share, yours and mine.
Look past its flaws in design,
find a world worth redeeming!
Seek what is, not the seeming:
beneath the gray – the gleaming.
Wake up! Stop death’s slow scheming.
14 MAR 2017
Come up again from the earth;
break through the cold crust and breathe!
Stretch those limbs, no worse for wear;
awake from your winter death!
Rise up through the thawing soil,
and drink the melting snow moist;
with your rested throat come join
the rest of the newborn choir!
Shake loose the dirt, seek the sun!
The world is once again young.
It wants new music begun
and merry wine and song brought.
Come up again from the earth;
enough of this bitter death!
Take down sad winter’s stale wreaths;
hang daisies and baby’s breath.
13 MAR 2017
Our life and death for a while leave
some tiny mark on the earth,
a minute’s trace of spent breath
before we repose in death.
In that lifetime, so fleeting,
what we think we truly need
escapes from us at such speed
we cry out at useless feet.
08 MAR 2017
Give an answer, if you can,
where doubts plague each fighting man
weighting healthy action down
and distracting from good plans;
where blind fear is laying waste
to fresh brick and mortar paste
shielding helpless, sick and poor,
from the pike and bonfire’s baste;
where to live alone is brave,
which makes heroes from mere knaves
who seek glory for all time
in some lines from poet slaves;
where faith falters, and belief
in war’s leaders and great chiefs
leads to slaughter fresh new lambs
who learn firsthand of despair;
where if love is found at all,
it kneels at the wailing wall
and drags on through endless hours
hoping honor breaks its fall;
’til what lives to fight once more,
taught to win despite the score,
lays its weapons down and dies,
chaff dropped on the threshing floor.
06 MAR 2017
A new idea finds the mind
and digs itself a home behind
what it finds still living there,
rewiring lights and such to suit,
requiring sometimes a reboot.
Then it takes root, without care
for walls and beams it wrests aside,
for contents lost when seams collide.
It takes great pride in breaking
the models of forgotten thought,
old lesson plans no longer taught,
like recipes not worth making.
And in that space it will expand,
imagining the world it plans
not build on sand, but on stone;
its buttresses unshakeable,
its hold on us, unbreakable,
its taproot makes a great throne.
But that illusion cannot last;
in birth, idea’s death is cast.
How fast new seeds demand light
and will destroy without regret
the noble root, and will upset
tradition’s sense of what is right.
And so the tragic, fragile mind
consists of what is left behind
and what is blind and just made.
There, in that pause between the sigh
of death and birth’s great squall and cry,
none deny they are afraid.
22 FEB 2017
What use worry
with its hurry –
in fate’s finger,
and with fear’s gloss
opting for loss
instead of bliss?
Why choose to miss
life’s subtle tastes?
What a sad waste –
in time’s revels,
and in life, care,
not for what’s there
but hidden threats,
not happened yets;
with only death
chasing each breath,
filling days out
with crippling doubt.
21 FEB 2017
It’s yesterday we cling to,
that we prefer to what’s new,
choosing safety, not what’s true:
life goes on, us with it too.
It has no rules; memories do,
and don’t shift the world and skew
the facts used to shape the Now,
which somehow is left to you.
17 FEB 2017