5/16/11

Flying about like a leaf in the wind,

Flittering, one undone task to the next.

Each chore resolves as another begins.

All. it would seem, achieves no great effect.

Volleyed and shot between desperate demands,

Speeding ahead, but still falling behind,

How much insanity must I withstand,

So I might give someone else piece of mind?

5/15/11

Upon a truck somewhere that spans a road from West to East,

A carefully collected group of artifacts is sent,

The fragments of a man's existance, numbered piece by piece,

Each one bestowed with great import, to help us not forget,

A feeling, a remembrance, or an odd envisioned scene,

Invoked by these few talismans, on which we count so much,

To take past moments, now become but something like a dream,

And bring them once again to life though objects that they touched.

I only hope someday the things I owned will be as this,

Effects both kept and cherished for the comfort which they hold,

A wooden chair, a lamp, a hanging picture, or a dish,

Which tell how good a life I lived by how much they console.

5/14/11

When someone pays for something, it becomes a work of art,

For those who estimate it's value in their minds and hearts.

Though it may move them, shock or soothe them, still they shall behold,

The ramblings of an amateur until the work is sold.

5/13/11

The dropper loves to mention names,

Of those he knows, who might impress.

His friends are fabulous and famed,

Yet his own worth, we're left to guess.

For names are just a cloak he wears,

To hide his simple, common skin.

A garment, threadbare, showing tares,

Betraying nakedness within.

Without it, he is left alone,

And must be seen for who he is,

To stand on merits of his own.

And not his great acquaintance’s.

5/12/11

We seek to solve life’s deepest mysteries,

By trying to unlock them with our pasts.

But such attempts are fraught with fallacies,

Our memories are magic looking glass,

Which shows us only what we wish to see,

And gives us comfort in the form of lies.

The answers we have sought are yet to be,

And as we live, our searching never dies.

5/11/10

We may call a person lazy when he shows no follow through,

But he’s really quite ambitious at the things he likes to do.

So, instead of laziness describing someone who’s remiss,

We’d be better off exchanging sloth for pure, base, selfishness.

5/10/11

The pieces of a puzzle lost,

And never found again,

Afflicts on us the bitter cost,

Of holes which shall not mend.

The larger image is conveyed,

Despite these missing shades,

And yet some question still remains,

Each time we cast our gaze.

For we suppose, but never sense,

What’s missing from the whole,

Perhaps an insignificance,

Or else, the heart and soul.

We must imagine and pretend,

The picture formed is clear,

Accepting what is gone, and then,

Embracing what's still here.

5/9/11

Gluttony, thy form is me,

As I indulge in wonton spree,

With disregard for consequence,

Decorum, tact, or common sense,

And worry not of things to come,

When festivals and feasts are done,

For then I’ll blame all maladies.  

Upon the fool I used to be.

5/8/11

She stuck me with her sharpened pins,

And said the wounds would heal.

Then, penetrating ‘neath my skin,

The needle's pricks revealed,

Ambiguous, unclear, effects.

And yet, to speak the truth,

If pinning down will force my rest,

I’ll take this aid forsooth.

     

5/7/11

Affliction from a backache's tenderness,
Is seen as adversary day to day,
Its stabbing spasms make one cringe and wince,
Its throbbing presence thwarting work and play.
Yet with this limitation of the spine,
And it's restrictions to mobility,
Emerges too, acuteness towards time,
And wariness against frivolity.
For with each extra effort introduced,
Comes impetus to make that stretch worthwhile.
With hurt inflicted after every move,
A fair reward must justify that trial.
Thus every choice we make in pain reflects,
The value which we place on each attempt,
And often demonstrates in retrospect,
Extents to which exertions are misspent.

5/6/11

Someone had a bad idea
And spoke it very loudly,
And those who heard it, though unclear,
Adopted it quite proudly.
With fervor they took up it's charge,
And put their plans in action,
Expanding their pursuit at large,
With great self satisfaction.
Like worker ants they crawled and danced,
About in frantic pace.
Preoccupied in their romance,
None noticed their mistakes.
Then finally, catastrophe,
From their misjudgments came,
And launched their newfound industry,
Deciding who to blame.

5/5/11
A fire cannot be cajoled,
To dampen down it's flames,
A mournful wind can't be consoled.
Hope stops not clouds nor rain.
There is no strength that can prevent,
The smallest wave's advance,
And no quick cure I can invent,
Will change my circumstance.
We are but wards in nature's care,
Enslaved by her design.
But, knowing this, and being fair,
She grants the gift of time.

5/4/11

Adrift upon an angry sea,

As waves tumultuously churn,

In tempest throes of memory,

For purpose we may never learn.

Horizons yield no distant shores,

Just aimless courses we must chart,

While fate and nature wage their wars,

The lost traverse the human heart.

5/3/11
Dismantling one's living room,
Proves quite an exercise.
Like scattered lint and dust we broom,
Our life is swept aside.
All structured comforts we embraced,
Which anchored us before,
Are in a few swift moves effaced.
By this straightforward chore.
And all the conversations shared,
When this space once was filled,
Hang silent in the vacant air,
Invisible and still.
The lives we lead may only lease,
Their presence for a time,
And all the rooms in which we meet,
Are cups of savored wine.
Which hold the essence of the day,
Until it comes to pass,
To have their contents drawn away.
Left only, spotted glass.

5/2/11

There is a child locked in a cell,

Where oft he sits and stares and cries.

It's iron walls protect him well,

From hurtful deeds and callous lies.

Yet, no one comes to care for him,

For no one is allowed inside.

From, time to time, he calls to them.

But none reply, and so he writes.

He pens a tale he cannot tell,

For no one hears.  And thus, he scribes,

About a child locked in a cell

Who often sits and stares and cries.

5/1/11

Today we move the loose debris,

Discarded during lifeless months,

The scattered branches, stumps, and leafs,

That blanketed the landscape's skin.

The fertile earth draws breath, now freed,

From coverings that block and shunt,

As reclaimed light and warmth received,

Infuse renewal from within.

The season's canvas now prepared,

Restores ambitions all at once.

This soft resurgence fine and fair,

Awakens minds and hearts to scheme.

Where once life languished and despaired,

There now erupts exuberance,

As fragrance carries on the air,

Sweet blossomed promises and dreams.

4/30/11

Sitting round a bonfire,

Staring at the flames,

Listening as the shrinking pyre crackles out our names.

Warning us in shadows,

Through the smoky gloom.

'As in life you burn and glow, you too shall be consumed'.

4/29/11

We dine outside our home tonight,
And toast our woes with fine repast,
To mock our demons and make light,
Of toils and trials we shall outlast.
We gather up what has been spilled,
And mend our wounds among our friends,
Then wish and curse and laugh until,
We must endure the world again.

4/28/11

Is patience truly virtuous,
As, through the ages, many claim,
Or does time simply torture us,
In measured days as we maintain?
I find no value comes to me,
Nor resolution as I wait,
And like some virulent disease,
This virtue self-perpetuates.

4/27/11

A fool shall never know himself,
And therefore never once concede,
His weaknesses to someone else,
Nor offer up apology.
Thus, we should nary waste a thought,
On words to sculpt and shape his mind,
A stone, by chisel, may be wrought,
But fool's conceit won't be refined.
Shortsightedness is his defense,
Obtuseness, nursemaid to his flaws.
No argument shall gain against,
A mind sworn to internal laws.
So, hearken not this happy man,
Who lives in self-deluded grace,
Proud of the dark in which he stands,
And strangled by his own embrace.

4/26/11

The changing climate ushers in,
A voice which temperately speaks,
In whisperings of summer winds,
And colors of the living weeks.
A gentle, tender breath that tells,
Of what will come and what has passed,
All chill and ice calmly dispelled,
To free our frozen hopes at last.

4/25/11

We must rise up at times when we are called,
Despite the irony that we may sense,
Because we view ourselves as meek and small,
And helpless in effecting life's events.
But even in self-doubting's deepest throes,
Sometimes we come to find belief restored,
When those who maintain hope despite their woes,
Place faith in those who dare to hope no more.

4/24/11

Upon this day of resurrection which we celebrate,
My mind is drawn to dark reflection on the tides of fate,
To wonder on effects of loss and bitter sacrifice,
And weigh one's blessings versus cost of life's unyielding price.
For some now gone shall not return, despite what we would will,
And left for us is but to learn to have our hearts fulfilled,
By what remains inside ourselves of who has gone before,
So as we live, within us dwells their love revived once more.

4/23/11

Indulgence oft receives self-reprimand,
A punishment for gluttony and waste,
A price our rationality demands,
For straying from processions of the chaste.
Yet excess is a necessary tool.
To overreach our means but now and then,
Our judgement cast aside to play the fool,
Allows the patience charged of civil men.
Is not such fleeting lapse a benefit,
Despite the slight regret that it may spawn?
If not for fickle freedoms we admit,
To what dark thoughts might we find ourselves drawn?
The devil's damage that we acquiesce,
Maintains our tenured time among the blessed.

4/22/11

Such strange endeavors tend to claim our days,
And bid obligatory shallowness,
What matters most of all, we seldom say,
And yet expound on all things meaningless.

4/21/11

We have an inborn drive to build,

To broaden and expand,

A need, insistently instilled,

To crave more space and land.

But is there not betrayal of doubt,

This augmentation casts?

As if the more we may spread out,

The more we shall outlast.

4/20/11

A sunset never tires, although witnessed countless times.

Though blue skies commonly transpire, still they tantalize.

Familiar are the sun and stars, yet often they entrance,

And frequent vistas near and far will conjure our romance.

These backdrop constants never cease to summon wonderment,

And majesty, though they may be an everyday event.

So lives true love, habitual, enduring through the years,

Yet witnessed with enraptured soul each moment it appears.

4/19/11
Today it was a nothing day,
No circumstance of consequence,
No lofty contributions made,
Nor pivotal turn of events.
Just ordinary segments stitched,
Together in dull tapestry.
And yet, I find it fortunate,
That quietness has come to me.
Far better to be unconsumed,
Than faced with frantic woes to bear.
For those today engaging doom,
My boring day is but a prayer.

4/18/11

The tiniest of wounds affect us so,

And ache beyond their scope in heart and mind.

Perhaps these slight offences swell and grow,

Infectious, left to fester, by design.

For if life’s trifles may be amplified,

And pondered by the soul obsessively,

Our deeper injuries may be denied,

Distracting us from greater misery.

Perhaps an unjust weight is thus bestowed,

Upon the lighter pains which we may feel.

The tiniest of wounds affect us so,

Lest we should anguish that which never heals.

4/17/11

A person with conviction can’t be  reached,

For he becomes a prisoner of his mind.

The arguments of truth may be beseeched,

But cannot pierce presumption’s iron blinds.

It’s vain to whisper reason or to shout,

For deafness shall afflict the satisfied.

Each time, somewhere, a man abandons doubt,

A piece of wisdom everywhere has died.

4/16/11

One month ago we cursed the snow,

And wished that it would finally wane.

But now at last, the cold has passed.

Therefore, we damn the falling rain.

Then once the Spring has taken wing,

Heat shall receive our censuring.

Is comfort rare, or to be fair,

Is it our solace to complain?