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
Leave a CommentThat morning comes again is no surprise;
the laws of physics have not been withheld,
nor has the motion of the planets, if
those laws are merely whims, been held at bay.
No vengeful demons or vain deities
have paused the world in darkness for their play.
No, the edge of space where I sit has again
been turned and tilted to its burning star;
while elsewhere on the globe, lights flicker out
and someone borrows my fear of the night
(which is not trepidation of mere dark,
but rather, the unknown outside the cave
[or box, as we prefer to call it now,
since we are civilized a thousand-fold]
that waits for us, like some divine pop quiz
on that damned chapter we forgot to read).
So, morning comes again; and every time,
despite all evidence to prove it will,
and though our own experience and sense
would tend to ease our worry on this tack,
yet we stand dumb still, starstruck at the sight,
in shock that our blind faith
caused it to be.
04 AUG 2006
Leave a CommentHow fickle fate doles out its random hand,
the faces of the cards down on the felt
unknown and spiteful of the best laid plans,
now little use once your lot has been dealt!
You work against the odds to make your play,
and with each round invest a greater sum;
with hope your only ally on the way,
an oracle who seems both deaf and dumb.
And then, by clever sleight or seeming chance,
a single card remains to seal your fate;
time slows each movement to a sluggish dance
as you see first a glimmer, then, too late,
a final pip is thrown to fill your hand,
destroying in an instant what wild dreams
of avarice you held. You understand
how fate works at that moment; and it seems
a bitter pill to swallow that such things
should be permitted by a loving God,
who gave the pendulum its cause to swing
and yet refused it any path but sod.
15 FEB 2006
Leave a CommentCast my future stars as void of course;
reduce to ash these ragged charts and maps,
and let the sails take from the restless wind
what strength they will. I will not feign I care
to know what line the sextant sight-glass proves,
nor where the ruling planets may align.
Let destiny release my wearied soul,
and through my worn and cambered heart, let flow
the cooler blood that marks a passion’s end;
give to the angels of our nature’s best
their just reward: from danger a respite,
and soft Elysian breeze to fan their wings.
Plot down no points, but wander free instead,
where the whole sea awaits; its fleeting touch
rests not upon a single shoreline’s crest,
but skips carefree between each distant beach.
Give unto me naught but my decommission;
I care for no more of your revolution.
25 AUG 2005
Set my stars as void of course, recast in iambic pentameter
Leave a CommentSet my stars as void of course;
reduce to ash these charts and maps,
and let the sails take from the wind
what strength they will. I do not care
to know what line the sextant proves,
nor where the planets may align.
Let destiny release my soul,
and through my tired heart, let flow
the cooler blood of passion’s end;
give to the angels of our nature
just reward: respite from danger,
and soft breeze to fan their wings.
Plot no points, but instead, wander
where the whole sea waits; it lingers
not upon a single shoreline,
but would visit distant beaches.
Sign my writ of decommission;
find your own damn revolution.
25 AUG 2005
1 CommentThe stars are fixed; they do not move.
Instead, what we call firmament
is just a shifting lens that’s bent
to suit the seasons. To approve
or disapprove such things is vain
and futile; our whole history,
that we would carve in stone and brick,
is but a wisp, a palimpsest,
that the next epoch writes anew.
And gods, if such are said to be,
perhaps employ more lasting inks
yet too will fade to faint indents
and leave no greater marks than men.
What once was center is now freed
and to circumference lays the lie;
great spheres of thought that wise men hold
more dear than life itself, deflate.
So what of fate, no more ordained
and best left to the seer’s glass?
What purpose do those notions serve
that would enslave the yearning mind?
We are in motion without end;
there is no point at which, full-stop,
the world could even for an hour
reflect upon its then-new state
so that an unseen force could smile
and praise his finished handiwork.
The stars are fixed; they do not move.
Instead, we hurl through space and time
in some eternal dance of life;
and no stiff doctrine made of men
has power to change the truth of it,
nor outraged, claim as heresy
what they, while blind, deny my eye.
05 APR 2005
Leave a Commenta poem in blank verse
Again, the conversation turned to fate;
and as the group was interested, to chance,
the lines of battle drawn between the ones
who thought the world predestined yet misshaped
and those who found perfection or kismet
in random acts and notions of free will.
The problem, said the former, is the lack
of evidence to justify our claim;
and to rebut, the latter said, to wit,
all evidence is houses built on sand.
For after all, our frame of reference fits
inside a thimble floating on a sea.
At best, we know our own spot on the shore;
and of the entire ocean only guess.
04 APR 2004
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