A moment’s span is very little time;
a single blink and half of it is gone.
Not long enough to make ambition’s climb,
a moment’s span is very little time,
which makes its wasting quite a solemn crime.
On such small pegs, life’s hat is hung upon.
A moment’s span is very little time;
a single blink and half of it is gone.
07 JUN 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, French verse forms, illusion, life, poetic forms, time, tininess, triolet
On these three things the world depends:
life purpose, effort and one’s friends.
The first provides velocity:
forward motion, destiny.
The second supplements one’s sails
when wind and tide desist or fail.
The third reminds us to respect
those in the world whose paths connect
with our own journey, for a while,
and share our sorrows and our smiles.
Without these things, the world is flat;
and our adventure, nothing that
is worth much. Neither time nor health
is substitute for this true wealth.
07 JUN 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, effort, friendship, Irish verse forms, life, poetic forms, purpose, triad
“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
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, life, poetic forms, pointlessness, struggle, toddaid, toil, Welsh verse forms, work
There is for life a very simple rule:
stand up when you must stand, and then lay down;
the grave awaits the king, wise man, and fool.
06 JUN 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, death, life, poetic forms, rules, simplicity, tercet
It makes no sense to soldier on;
the dusk looks so much like the dawn
that even should the sun eclipse
there is no cause to do backflips
or celebrate the coming day.
But come, let’s toast life, anyway!
Each day begins and ends the same;
with no specific cause to blame
except that living tends to drone
and carry on. You’re born alone,
and by exception find your way.
But come, let’s toast life, anyway!
You buy and sell each moment’s art;
it can’t survive, if split apart
from what creates it, the bruised whole
that struggles to maintain control
and tolerate each passing day.
But come, let’s toast life, anyway!
In vain, we seek to understand;
inventing myths, and gods, and man,
as if we had creative strength
except to measure, width and length,
the box we’ll fill, returned to clay.
But come, let’s toast life, anyway!
What is the point of this charade?
Just prancing horses, on parade,
whose blinders lead just straight ahead
and walk until they fall down dead.
We know this, but walk night and day.
But come, let’s toast life, anyway!
05 JUN 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, alcoholism, death, illusion, life, poetic forms, positivity, purpose, stave
There is no time to lose, soothsayers tell us;
Make hay! The sun will shine just for a while,
and once it’s gone, the world will turn to rust,
deprived of motive power, warmth, and style.
All things depend on endless solar power,
that radiating energy that fuels
the moments of our lives, the days and hours,
the actions of both conqueror and fool.
While artificial light may serve its purpose,
there is no life without organic heat
extending far beyond the simple surface
into the core, where being’s heart must beat.
Such darkness none on earth have ever known
like what will come when the sun’s fuse has blown.
1 JUN 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, apocalypse, English sonnet, life, light, poetic forms, power, Shakespearean sonnet, sonnet, sunlight
We each must choose the causes worth our fighting
from a great myriad of pointless quests
designed to breed confusion in our breasts
and keep the fuse inside us from igniting.
The frivolous is made to seem exciting;
it titillates and leads our thoughts astray.
We lose momentum somewhere on the way,
and valor turns from acts to talk and writing.
And then, the courage fueling forward motion
begins to wane, reduced from flame to spark;
we stagnate, turned from blood and flesh to stone.
What starts as dedication and devotion
slips fast away from bright to cold and dark;
our coalition lost, we fade, alone.
31 MAY 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, belonging, choices, illusion, life, Petrarchan sonnet, poetic forms, sonnet
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