New Directive: glosa, glose, gloss


Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather – Robert Frost

Back out? How far? To what remove?
What will that further distance prove –
that some great reset of the clock
will change the past, and thereby block

the entropy and slow decay
that brought us to the present day,
where we bewail our world’s demise?
How could that fate be a surprise?

The detail wasn’t burnt or lost
without our knowledge; we helped toss
those leaves onto the burning pile,
convincing ourselves all the while

that an ideal of greater good
was possible, if we just could
change everyone else without first
changing ourselves. That bubble burst,

and now we cry alack and woe.
We knew then how this thing would go:
that words like fate and destiny
sound empty, but our vanity

insists we cannot be to blame,
and seeks an Other we can name
as the great cause of the dismay
we see as the threat of the day.

Those better days of halcyon,
in truth, ’tis better that they’re gone;
Just ask the disenfranchised then
how golden was that age of men,

how green their grass, how free their reign,
in that time we think free from pain?
If you would enshrine some day gone
as when the world was good, dream on!

Back out? ’Tis but a wistful dream!
Instead: become, instead of seem,
a human soul that wants to grow
beyond the boundaries you know.

24 MAR 2017

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Ode to Joy


Joy doesn’t “find” you;
good fortune won’t light
like bluebirds of happiness
on your slumped shoulders.

Joy doesn’t come up
like flowers in a garden,
some sudden epiphany
before your eyes.

Joy doesn’t “find” you;
it happens, on purpose,
the moment you seek it
in something you are.

Joy, much like happiness,
self, and fulfillment,
aren’t simply out there
like lottery picks.

Joy doesn’t “find” you.
You “find” it – by looking,
by acting according
to what you would be.

Joy doesn’t “find” you.
It does no good hoping,
unless you start moving
beyond listless dreams.

04 JAN 2017

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Just Yesterday’s News


I don’t know the man that I’m supposed to be:
I’ve looked at his life like a documentary;
and with some of his choices I just can’t agree;
but it’s too late to start out again.

I’m tired of the man I’m supposed to become:
that you get where you’re going thanks to where you’re from,
and somehow, the pieces add up to the sum
’til it’s too late to start out again.

Help me out, anyone, throw me a line;
tell me again things will all be just fine.
Help me out, would you, we’re out here alone;
we don’t need to be stuck on our own.

I’m sick of the man I turned into a while:
that often unsteady and pathetic smile
who traded in substance and bartered with style,
but you can’t up and start out again.

I’m sure I don’t know who I’ll be in the end:
the lover, the fighter, the poet, the friend;
but at least in the mirror, I will not pretend
it’s not too late to start out again.

Help me out, anyone, throw me a bone,
some reassurance here in the unknown.
Help me out, please, and I’ll do you the same;
we don’t need to keep playing this game.

I’m just not quite clear who I’ll be in a year:
but some things are cloudy, and others quite clear;
there’s neither the past or the future to fear,
and there’s no starting over again.

Help me out, anyone, just take a chance.
Music is playing; we’ve paid for the dance.
Help me out, honestly, what can you lose?
We don’t always get what we choose,
but we’re neither just yesterday’s news.

22 DEC 2013

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Journey’s End


Every journey starts out simply,
with a single thought:
where am I, where have I been,
and is it where I ought
to imagine is my place,
my center in this life,
or is there more to me than this,
a home, a job, a wife,
a few possessions, give or take,
some good deeds, half undone,
almost a mid-length sermon’s worth;
does this make up my run?

Every journey starts out simply,
one step at a time:
which is the direction onward,
which hill should I climb,
beyond the horizon, will I
find that which I seek,
will there be fresh water
or a decent place to eat,
and more importantly, perhaps,
why should I choose just one,
when other routes seem just as fine
why leave them all undone?

Every journey starts out simply,
at least in the mind:
here I am at x,
and I will leave this y behind,
forward in direction,
stabbing outward with a will,
never for a moment
giving thought to standing still,
seeking something other,
something else, some thing undone,
something that won’t be remembered
when my journey’s done.

21 APR 2013

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Let go, let go, let go


Cast away your doubts and fears;
let go, let go, let go.
Leave behind all that you know;
let go, let go, let go.

Nothing left to tie you down,
nothing blocking out your sound,
nothing keeping you around;
let go, let go, let go.

Toss aside those clouds and gray;
let go, let go, let go.
Ask the universe to play;
let go, let go, let go.

There is something left to find,
something of another kind,
could be something on your mind:
let go, let go, let go.

Leave behind your cares and woe;
let go, let go, let go.
All you’ve learned and all you know;
let go, let go, let go.

Anything can be achieved,
anything you can believe
can be used to make you grieve:
let go, let go, let go.

Let your worries slip away;
let go, let go, let go.
Start again, just start today;
let go, let go, let go.

No one blocking out your view,
no one left except for you
to complete the passage through:
let go, let go, let go.

19 APR 2013

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The Speed of Now


What use is feeling sorry
for what might have never been,
some chimera of fantasy
that if it had appeared
might easily have torn to shreds
the life it would improve,
inspired to burn too brightly,
leaving nothing in its wake?

What use is sad reflection
on a course you left behind,
now overgrown in disrepair,
its signposts worn away?
The journey down that avenue
might not have led you here,
but who’s to say what’s for the best,
or where footsteps should lead?

What use is reminiscing
on the glory days of yore,
mad hours of strength and courage
when you and the world were young
and did not know of what to come,
of bridges yet to burn
whose light would fade out, in the end,
to soot and bitter ash?

What use is feeling sorry
for what still may come to pass,
imagining the road ahead
determined by those past,
a die cast in some yesterday
that cannot be undone,
a somber, gray formality
that withers into death?

What use in such pretending?
There is no course so set
that it cannot be altered
or made to turn or bend.
Leave off such mad dejection,
if you would live at all.
We travel at the speed of now
or stagnate where we fall.

16 APR 2013

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The Legacy: a dizain


Let those you wish to sing your praise
remember not your fabled deeds,
nor cite your methods nor the ways
you solved a problem, met a need.
Reward like this is small, and leads
one to perform for weak applause.
Instead, let those who plead your cause
to future listeners recall how
from where you were, despite your flaws,
you did a thing worth doing now.

19 DEC 2012

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