All writing

When pondering the meaning of existence,
as natural, for men of certain breeding,
as breathing -- while maintaining proper distance,
though compensating with insightful reading
of every latest essay on the subject...
Oh, but to grasp the wonder of it all --
they could, you know, since money is no object,
and grasping never ceases to enthrall --
but serving as a model and example,
restrain themselves, at least when in the lens
of paparazzi -- maybe just a sample?
Then diligently back to screens and pens,
lamenting Man's inevitable follies.
Tomorrow, tennis lesson, serves and volleys.

to qualify for codger label
and in particular of old
no need to fancy mink or sable
although it's often been foretold

that the utopia forthcoming
what with the advent of AI
when home will need no heat or plumbing
and little need of you and I

will be resisted by the codgers
who incidentally, don't care
rely on these ungrateful dodgers
to build their castles in the air

and to ba-humbug the inventions
that generate our brave new world
avoiding social network mentions
martini shaken, but not swirled

For those inconsequential sounds of fury,
deemed signifying nothing in the end
by every self appointed judge and jury
presuming that the fury is pretend,
or worse, that it is impotent and toothless,
so seeking to dismiss it without cause,
they call it disingenuous and truthless,
and ridicule it, mock it to applause...
For those of you that persevere, undaunted,
immune to fear and loathing and contempt:
it's better to be beaten than be haunted
by victories that you did not attempt.
So go ahead, be furious and rage.
Let no one say that you did not engage.

A lighthouse blinks into existence
to reassure an errant sail,
white surf is breaking in the distance.
The crescent, colorless and pale,
climbs, struggling to fulfill his duty
to bathe the sky with lime like beauty,
but has to wrestle with a cloud
that wants to cover him, and shroud
its adolescent distant cousin
in wispy, cotton candy drapes.
But watch the crescent: he escapes,
evades this follower who doesn't
persist in trying for the moon
and lets him dip in the lagoon.

Beneath the gently lapping waters,
drawn upwards by the lustrous glow
a mermaid, one of Neptune's daughters,
is rising, graceful, from below.
She too desires the bathing crescent,
now luminous and effervescent,
preferring him to men and mer,
as if he's shining just for her.
The crescent slips through her wet fingers,
oblivious to her desire,
and in the meantime, climbing higher
as his immersed reflection lingers
upon the surface of the bay
so she can splash around and play.

Arrives, at last, into his orbit.
He's shaking off drop after drop,
rather than trying to absorb it
or let it hang there from his top,
like a forgotten bit of stardust.
Now for the part that is the hardest:
convincing Venus to abide.
But brave Orion is her guide,
and Venus, unimpressed, still rises.
Bright starlets are forever bound,
what goes around must come around,
no bargains, trades or compromises.
The deep lagoon, no tidal pool,
reflects on this unwritten rule.

She understands, upon reflection --
her being mirrorlike, by birth --
and works to strengthen the connection
between the heavens and the earth,
to make the distant seem much nearer,
so dreams are brighter, lovers dearer,
and stars made ready for their shoot,
admirers in hot pursuit.
As for the crescent -- he shines brightly,
spurred on by Venus to his best,
no time to dally or to rest,
performing as required, nightly,
remembering his time is short.
Before too long, the sun holds court.

Why can't my heroes sound as if they matter,
their listeners to hang on every word,
each utterance to count, no idle chatter,
so any that attempt to strike a chord
succeed in piercing coarse, plot-thickened skins,
and battle weary, dented, rusting armor?
That trite, most unoriginal of sins,
to bore -- no, make my every snake a charmer,
my every villain wrestle with their morals,
their inner conflicts resonant and deep;
they're never ever resting on their laurels
with all those evil promises to keep.
But most of all, let language be my friend.
And have them read my stories to the end.

The dragonfly, its shimmer iridescent,
caught hovering above the lily's cup.
Nearby the gnats are swarming, their incessant
and shoal like movement, every rise and drop,
is reminiscent of a single creature,
until a swallow dives into the swarm,
and gulps a dozen down. (Its naming feature,
if I can take a minute to inform,
not for its mouth, but for its cleft shaped tail).
While this goes on, and wholly undetected,
a stealthy frog is managing to scale
the lily pad, and when it's least expected,
shoots out its wagging tongue above the lake,
but comes up empty having missed the drake.

Evolve, He had commanded, and we have.
From puddles to the trenches of the ocean,
our tiny blunders as we split and halve
enabling each quaint and silly notion
of what life is, or could be, as we fail,
we die, to make it possible for others,
and as we pummel, trash about, and flail,
to chose the most adapted of our brothers,
with just one goal in mind: please pass it on,
continue our existence in some shape.
We pray for prey, and often, preyed upon,
while praying for an imminent escape,
we wonder, is that really all there is?
Evolve, He said. The man was such a tease.

there's a solar eclipse
as the planets align
after so many trips
the celestial design
picks a time around noon
and delivers its gaze
there's a man on the moon
says it's all just a phase

To hear a fortuneteller tell it
and more so, tell it like it is,
instead of trying to upsell it,
to tickle, tantalize and tease,
is in itself a rare occasion --
the species, partial to evasion,
deceit and trickery their trade,
are only happy to get paid.
The ancient oracles at Delphi,
so like the pundits of today,
would always know just what to say,
then, posing for a marble selfie
with both the winner and the chump,
their every tarot card a trump.

An echo thunders through the canyon
it's fast but still a step behind
its spark of lightning, the companion
that it's allotted and assigned.
So close to first that it can smell it --
is there a means that could propel it
into the lead it so deserves?
It is the thunder god it serves
and yet it's lightning for the laurel.
Upset, it reaches out to Zeus,
who in attempting to diffuse
and settle the impending quarrel,
allows that thunder will be first,
though just behind the lightning burst.

electron in orbit
an ion will fight
to grab it, absorb it
extinguish its light
then send it away
on a signaling mission
and that's all there is
to the human condition

A gust of wind and I am wholly drenched,
umbrella is as useful as a fiddle,
as if the earth, demanding to be quenched,
had struck the skies, with me caught in the middle,
and opened up the floodgates, broke their locks,
to soak the world with all of their frustrations.

I struggle up the street, wet to my socks,
replaying the abandoned conversations
that carried me, like flotsam, to these shores,
deposited, and left to my devices,
away from festered and unsettled scores,
to wallow in obscene, unpunished vices,
and slowly sink beneath the seaborne foam.
So lonely, and so far away from home.