Simple Truths: a ruba’i

The truth is, all that I have found
in these short years above the ground
is that we see what we desire,
what turns our heads around;

and all else doesn’t matter much.
A hint of rose, a lover’s touch;
the little things alone remain.
We lean upon them, like a crutch,

imagining the world is only these;
a selfish notion, if you please,
that over time destroys our minds
and brings us to our knees.

18 APR 2014

Memory: a poem of the five senses

Burnt cinnamon and candle wax,
the surface of sandpaper and a tack,
a bitter hint of lemon peel
chased with a water back.

The tinkle of a shattered glass,
the supple strength of silk,
an echo of a footstep
and a hint of soured milk.

A new bouquet of flowers,
the barking of a hound,
cold shimmer of a moonbeam,
the scent of fresh-plowed ground.

17 APR 2014

Nothing is more true: a terza rima

How much more could I love you than I do?
It surely may seem possible, and yet
in those dear days left to me (all too few)

to think that I could possibly forget
or cast aside the one light of my days,
discard the truest friend I’ve ever met,

or fail somehow to sing your constant praise;
it’s far more likely I will sprout some wings.
I’ve grown accustomed to your loving ways,

and come to cherish all the little things.
There is no better match for me than you;
and each day with you some new pleasure brings.

How can you have doubt? Nothing is more true.

15 APR 2014

The answer: a 20 questions poem

What’s the point?
Is there some reason why you ask?
Do you really care?
Does anyone really want to know?
Why does it seem to matter so much?
Who do we think we are?
What difference does it make, anyway?
Will it change a thing, our birth or death?
And what about that life stuck in between?
Is there some great epiphany to come?
Has everything that ever counted been here and moved on?
Where did we expect to go?
And what did we expect to find?
If all of this is nothing, what are we doing?
If this is all there is, why do we waste an instant?
Who gains anything poised delicately in the middle?
Can anyone that seeks a balance survive?
Who makes these rules, anyway?
What is the proof of anything at all?
Why ask and why answer?
Yes.

14 APR 2014

By Aid of Telescope: a kenning poem

Reach out with your eye-spear;
the evidence is plain.
Out on the great wide sea road
we will all meet again.

Each underneath the canopy
that makes up the star carpet,
despite the distances between us
we will once again be met.

Imagine out beyond the known,
in that great thought cloud of the mind.
Together, we may walk a path;
who knows what we may find?

17 APR 2014

The tree of reason: a replacement poem

Reason is an undirected graph
in which any two vertices are connected
by exactly one simple path.

Reason is a perennial plant
with an elongated stem, or trunk,
supporting leaves or branches.

In some usages,
the definition of reason
may be narrower.

Reason can be empty
with no nodes
called the null or empty reason

or reason is a structure
consisting of one node called the root
and one or more subnodes.

12 APR 2014