It is then, for charity sake,
for you to give them audience,
so for them to relate,
while they are still in a cognitive state.
Forever Gone By
This year the corn has grown higher than ever before.
Perhaps it is due to improved seed, perhaps the added manure.
But rather, I suspect it is because the corn has sensed
that the farm is about to be no more.
The children are leaving, as like dust in the wind—
leaving behind calloused and weathered skin—
leaving behind a bond with earth that once had been.
And now, I know not what awaits them,
but I fear they will rue the day
when they chose to leave the farm behind,
and the waving corn with tassels borne high,
as a cruel remembrance of days forever gone by.
Friend or Foe
When as a boy,
I often sat and whittled—
with my pen knife my best friend.
Together we would fashion faces
all peculiar to other places.
Then one day it cut me quick—
from which I learned a lesson:
to treat my friends—
no matter who, no matter what—
with care and discretion.
God in the Vernacular
Do you remember when you first learned about God?
From your parents—after you learned to walk?
Or, more likely, after you learned to talk?
It must have not been before then;
otherwise, you would have already known
that He sat on an almighty throne.
So it was that your parent’s religion became your religion,
and their God became your God;
with you, a new member of the pod.
Perhaps then, it was just a matter of time until you too
were prone to exclaim, as though taken from holy writ,
“God help us!”, “God forbid!”, and “Goddam it!”
Held in Abeyance
Frozen in place
the icicles point downward—
as like daggers
poised at rest.
Is it because,
born to be free,
those drops resent being
held in captivity.
Or is it because
they are putting on a show
to compensate for flowers
yet beneath the snow.
Help Me To See
Who hung those curtains before my eyes
through which I find it difficult to see?
The pattern of which is monotony.
It is the only window allowed to me
from my mind I am able to see.
To then deny me of diversity.
Pull them aside, I often plea.
Offer semblance of liberty.
Open them, set me free.
How Dull Life Would Be
I often do not know
which way to go—
which choice to make.
Even when I try with all my might,
I am more often than not, seldom right.
But if I was,
was always right—
to know and choose right from wrong;
whether yes from no, left from right,
do from don’t, white from black,
or black from white—
as though I had a second sight,
or someone or something as a guiding light,
I am afraid I’d be put on a boring nonstop flight
so to never know, not even the joy of a pillow fight.
Human Nature
I’ve heard it professed that adults are the product of their parents,
that racism, bigotry, materialism, are learned from grown ups.
So then, why not take children away from their parents—
put them all together in a place by themselves—
and let them grow up only with themselves?
But, sadly, I think, you would find,
the survival of the aggressive,
domination of the meek—
as it has come to be,
before and after.
Amen.
i vs I vs Me
Why is it so many on the internet
convey themselves as “i”?
Is it in disrespect of conventions,
to show they are nonconformists?
Are they elementary school drop outs,
no better than if home-schooled?
Are they just too busy or lazy,
for a combined peck?
Are they shy,
as like a dark hole in the universe?
If you ask them why they do it
they are likely to call you a nitpicker;
while adding that anyone should know
that an “i” standing alone—means “me”
and so, is not a typo.
If Only I Had
I meant to write; I meant to call—
throughout my head like a bouncing ball.
Perhaps tonight—if not tomorrow—
but as always, I didn’t at all.
And now, too late;
she can no longer relate.
So if I go to attempt relief;
it will deservedly heighten my grief.
Imagination On The Go
Your imagination is your friend,
for it is what makes you tick.
It makes you think; it makes you dream—
like apple pie topped with ice cream.
Without it you would be as dull as dirt
in which no plant could grow.
So it is up to you to fertilize it—
to keep it on the go.
In a Hammock Within a Cathedral
Here I lie as though in a cocoon,
surrounded by oaks as old as I,
in a kinship I cannot deny,
beneath cathedral-like arches
reaching for the sky.
The sparkling foliage high above
occasionally reveals a brilliant blue,
graced with fleeting white clouds,
to contrast the view.
My stalwart companions, as warriors of old,
exemplify above and below the ground
what it takes to become renown.
So, as long as I live
no one shall bring them down.
But should the need occur
for them to march in solidarity
onto the Capitol, to go on strike,
to have their say.
Oh, what an inspiring sight to see—
while I, from in a hammock,
admitting voice to a tree.
In God We Trust
Millions, nay, billions,
have perished in the name of a god.
Both knowingly and unknowingly they so died—
in glory or ignominiously.
Atheists might well claim they have died in vain.
Believers; to the contrary.
For is there not a country that proclaims
in one fashion or another: In God we trust?
In Need of Mental Rehabilitation
Those who convulse their mind in continual consternation,
never pausing to meditate and take into consideration
what it was, or is, that precipitated their fixation,
are likely to fuel the rate of acceleration,
to where it becomes a preoccupation,
in need of psychiatric consultation.
In Praise of Indecent Beer
And so they chanced to become acquainted,
during Happy Hour at a bar.
“What are you drinking?” she asked.
“Indecent beer,” he replied.
"What? Indecent beer?" she asked.
"Yes, it says on the can that if you drink enough of it,
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it will arouse your primal sexual instinct,” he answered.
"What? You’re kidding!" she said.
"No, I’m not. But you have to drink a six pack,” he said.
"I don’t want any. And you better stop drinking it,
or I’ll tie your hands behind your back,” she said.
“I’d love to see you try,” he said.
And so it is that such asininity
often sparks acquaintanceships
that produce lifetimes of happy hours.
In the Twilight of My Dawn
Here I am, by myself—
as it should be.
They have gone their separate ways—
as it should be.
I did my duty; it is done.
She now appears before me
as the promise of yesterday . . .
in the twilight of my mind.
It is time for me to go as well.
I will take her hand; she will lead me.
What else am I to do?
What recourse do I have?
Her eyes and smile beckon . . .
hinting of more than I can fathom.
I will see if she is but an apparition—
at the twilight of my dawn.
In Your Looking Glass
How many times has this rain drop come down?
Perhaps a zillion before there was ever a town.
Since creation it ascended to the heavens as vapor
to collect itself, to then descend on another caper.
And so, ageless, the cycle relentlessly repeats,
never considering to suffer defeats.
On land or sea it endeavors to splash,
perhaps by chance, on someone’s eyelash.
But unlike the days of yore, when fresh and pure,
it now falls as toxic as pestiferous manure.
And what brought about this contaminated mass?
The answer lies in your looking glass.
It Sounds Like Rain
It sounds like rain, you say.
But rain cannot talk,
at least not like you and I, I say.
Oh yes it can, you say.
You can hear it clearly enough
when it rat-tat-tats on a tin roof,
or the pitter-patter from a drippy rain pipe,
or the drone of a steady-stream deluge.
That’s true, I say.
But that’s simply rain at play
which, by the way,
is just hear say.
It’s Just Me and My Dog
The time was when, if I gave her a kick;
she would put me down by giving me a lick
knowing full well that such a response
will elicit a pat—worth getting the kick.
But no longer do I render kicks—
no matter what the offense;
but instead, I give her more pats
so to get more licks—
because now, it’s just me and my dog.
Just One Step Away
I’ve walked the plank to its very end—
where I stand petrified,
as though cast in stone,
wondering if I have already died.
I call for someone to reach out to me:
to lead me back, and away from here;
or to thrust me off into the abyss—
to then be in their debt.
But hearing no reply, I beg,
please, sink this accursed plank:
this threshold into a netherworld—
a place of neither life or death.
A place where sinners such as I
would be submerged with only our heads free—
forced to view both Heaven and Hell—
so to be entombed through eternity.
Leaves for All Occasions
Caressed by the sun,
bathed by the rain,
stroked by the wind;
lilting, tilting,
whirling, twirling.
Youthful and exuberant in spring,
lazy and demure in summer,
bright and gay in the fall,
carpeting the ground in the winter.
Set free to decompose,
to nurture generations.
Again, and again
to arouse our sensations.
Life and Death as a Comedy
Once as a child in a theater,
the film was one of war.
The scene was of solders on a war front.
When suddenly, shelling began.
The soldiers plunged into foxholes.
One, little more than a boy,
having been cleaning his boots, left one above.
Then, amid the bombardment,
a hand appeared from the edge of a foxhole;
groping for, then clutching the boot,
when a violent explosion ensued.
As the smoke cleared,
the hand slipped back into the foxhole
together with a soul rending plea:
‘Momma, Momma.’
The audience burst out in laughter;
as though at a comedy.
At first I became enraged,
but then realized that, in deed,
life and death is, perhaps, a comedy,
but I could not bring myself to laugh.
Make Believe
Living in a fantasy world can be exciting,
to keep the every day world at bay.
What can be any better—
no matter whether night or day.
You don’t have to be nuts to do it;
it’s where you have the final say.
It’s where you are the boss—
as though living a real-life play.
It can take you—you can take it
here, there, and astray;
but keep in mind it’s only fantasy
with reality just moments away.
Migrant Labor
At first I thought them to be
cattle that had broken free—
foraging in a berry field.
But then one stood upright.
It wore a hat and shirt and pants—
revealing it to be a human being.
And every time thereafter
when I see a basket of berries on sale
I wonder where who had picked them now was.
Could it have been the very one I had once seen,
and those others—as like cattle in that field—
bending, and stooping as a way of life?
My Built-In Alarm System
They occur more frequently every day,
those aches and pains that plague me so.
Some for keeps, and thus to stay.
Others stabbing and jabbing on savage foray.
Although inclined to think them enemies
I realize I am being unfair;
since they are merely letting me know
which of my parts are in need of repair.
But as my machinery is wearing out
and not fashioned for an ever lasting stay,
taking pills have become the order of my day,
to keep what ails me seemingly at bay.
And so it is that I function from day to day
with my built-in alarm system ringing ever more,
knowing that to flip off the switch would also
pull tight the curtains and seal shut the door.
My One Room Habitat
I have a one room habitat . . .
it is called a cranium.
I can furnish it luxuriously . . .
or keep it meagerly somber.
I was born in it . . .
and I will die in it.
I can keep it tidy or not . . .
whichever I please.
I can seek relief with drugs . . .
but at what cost?
I cannot escape . . .
my own nightmares.
I can
live there or be evicted . . .
onward and upward, or down and out.
My Shadow
It shrinks and slides
when the sun is about,
and seems attached to me.
But then hides when the sun does too—
making me wonder if it does belong to me;
or instead, is the Sun’s child assigned to me—
for what reason I’d like to know—
perhaps it’s all just for show.
Never to have Lived at All
Never to have:
borne a child . . .
felt that first life . . .
seen that battered little face . . .
those tiny clenching hands.
Never to have:
brushed tiny teeth . . .
scrubbed behind ears . . .
washed little bottoms . . .
and bundled them in a towel.
Never to have:
looked into a shinny sparkling face . . .
told a silly story . . .
amid little giggles.
Never to have:
tucked in securely in place;
then checked and rechecked . . .
for safe and sound.
Never to have:
stood in the surf with a tiny body atop;
with legs tightly wrapped around . . .
as the waves caressed and crashed by.
Never to have lived any of these . . .
is never to have lived at all.
Nothing to Obscure Her View
My mother died the other day.
So we all came to cry and repent,
to recall those things we once meant.
I decided to take a walk,
to be out of the house,
to get away.
I walked alone, to be alone,
to gather my thoughts,
on that autumn day.