This is the morning of the first day;
nothing much remains of yesterday
except some dust in the clay on the wheel,
a flew flecks of shadow in the gray.
This is the morning of moving on;
what happens now is already gone,
chaff on today’s mown lawn blown by a breeze
that has no memory of the dawn.
This is the morning of here and now;
in past soil turned under by the plow
its seeds take hold, somehow, and make their way.
No pause for reminisce is allowed.
This is the morning of the new day;
what can remain of yesterday,
except the faint scent of decay that hangs
above fragrant, new blooms as they sway?
This is the morning of what will be;
let all yesterday’s visions go free.
What good their subtlety to you today?
Past boldness provides no guarantee.
27 MAR 2017
Swirling in shadows like an almost barely there
hint of suggestion, reach to touch it if you dare.
Constants in motion all at once, they’re everywhere.
Nothing for granted, but you really just don’t care.
Used to be’s, fantasies,
lost in the whirlwind
where you find that you are free.
Come with me, and you’ll see
if you know anything
Moving ever onward, invitation to the dance;
join in with the rhythm if you only take a chance.
Nonstop celebration, all directions all the time;
never really knowing where to stop and draw the line.
Caution signs, never mind,
caught in a windstorm
where you learn what is to be.
Come with me, and you’ll see
if you know anything
13 JAN 2015
What makes up a community,
if not those common threads
that make us not such strangers
and more interested, instead,
in how the other sees the world,
what makes a good friend tick.
To share the things that shape your life:
that’s what makes friendship stick.
And who need know out and beyond
some wide, imagined fence,
besides the ones whose words you trust
with your experience?
If the result is my small pond
should teem with such big fish
that my wee boat seems less alone:
for what more could I wish?
09 APR 2006
What light may break through the scrub trees
that line the well-groomed yard at dawn
is thin and pale, its weight degrees
less than it when it lingers on
the lower depths, the southern end,
below the Orleans waterline;
there it hangs and drips with fat
and heavy water in the pines
and live oaks. Yet it brings the day
on the same time clock. Newton claimed
that mass does not affect the way
a thing responds; its strength is tamed
by gravity, that evens out
the superficial and the deep.
I, though, with Einstein, have my doubts,
while watching as new sunsets creep,
some like a lion, others meek,
with peacock’s plumes, or subtle shades;
some like a corpse, that dares not speak;
a few like boisterous parades.
What insights in an hour’s time
the rare observer gains, are lost
once that same sun completes its climb
and burns away both death, and frost.
14 OCT 2005
Each grain of sand that populates
the endless span of shore
seems to be some small answer,
yet implies that there is more
to knowing than to learn by rote
some formulas or rules;
and when compared to the wide ocean
leaves wise men as fools
who would describe their world without
first knowing who describes,
gathering in wild opinions
like a thief collecting bribes.
To grasp the edge of the unknown,
and feel its sharp lip’s rasp
leaves only scars on seeking hands
that would some great truth grasp.
And truth? What sage would dare to dream
their vision broad enough
to take in what has breadth and depth
beyond man’s feeble bluff?
What theories we may formulate,
imagining the range
of life to be within our limits
seems exceeding strange.
If time is our sole instrument
for judging deeds and such,
how sad that it be squandered
limping along on the crutch
of preconceived ideas, formed
in sterile beds of thought
assuming constancy the norm
that drives how we are taught.
What good a single grain of sand
if man is on the beach
and for the want of one small speck
thinks the sea out of reach?
2 JUN 2005
They grow up fast; in just a short month’s span
the smallest seed becomes a tall, wild stalk
grown high enough to look down on a man.
But that time does not fly, despite the talk
philosophers will write in dry, thick books.
It crawls, and through its microscopic lens
each moment, its own kernel, often looks
enormous to the untrained eye, and bends
beyond the simple frame that would encage
its constant search to stand free and alone.
The acts of men and gods, played on this stage,
seem little more than dust on ancient bones.
Yet insignificance belies import;
and often what appears not more than sand,
when magnified in life’s uncertain sport
holds more in scope than we can understand.
The weeds that crowd the garden, too, from seeds
the same as precious flowers were conceived.
Who knows what end ideas will breed,
if nurtured like their promise was believed?
14 May 2005
Beauty is youth’s currency;
and those who have it spend
without a care for what may come,
as if it will not end.
The doors of hearts and shops alike
are open to its wants,
and offer endless credit
to the wealthy debutante.
Down every street, the merchants wait
with sweets and tempting fare
and act as if they’ll do the same
once no more money’s there.
But Beauty is a fickle coin,
like manna on the lawn
it ages quickly or will rot;
one morning, it is gone.
How fast the world reveals its claws,
and deadbolts fast its doors;
then woe to those whose meager stash
is gone, leaving them poor.
And how we mock the misers who
would hoard up Beauty’s gold,
and watch the world reborn each day
while they grow weak and old.
Spend fast, you children, while you can,
but don’t just buy, invest;
for once your purse is empty,
you’ll be just like all the rest:
Who scramble to regain what you
have callous, spent so free,
and find all they have left to show
is faded memory.
05 MAY 2005