All writing

Transparency, they'll say on the TV.
The people want to understand the process.
To feel and taste, examine it. To see
that it is not some hidden party bosses,
but free and fair elections that decide
the future and the nature of our nation.
So bathe the truth in light, don't let it hide;
immerse yourself in facts and information,
and that is how you'll get the best result.
Upon examination, though, but really?
With must win battles lost, then, who's at fault?
No, battles aren't won with touchy feely.
Important ones? You'd much prefer to win those.
Transparency is best left for your windows.

Objective standards notwithstanding --
and are there any other kind --
no standard can exist depending
on the perceiver's state of mind,
since if it is, it's not a standard,
but an opinion that's rendered
from the perspective of its host.
It may be popular, at most,
but isn't truly universal,
the way a meter or a gram
produce a measure worth a damn,
and never subject to reversal.
Those limitations understood,
I thought this thing was pretty good.

A spelling bee got trapped by amber,
right at the start of the awards,
while she was trying to remember
much thornier and tougher words.
With voice as smooth and sweet as honey
and cheered along by mom and nanny,
so confident as she took flight
she lost, and early in the fight,
by placing "e" at the beginning:
who thinks of resin when they're young?
The letters rolling off her tongue,
she spelled it out with thoughts of winning...
The judge said: found on pine and bark,
not ashes glowing in the dark.

If you want to walk on water,
better find a frozen pond.
Whether you're His son or daughter --
oh, He's equally as fond,
though seems more so fond of science,
so if acting in defiance
of the known God-given laws,
don't expect any applause.
Any help from God, our father,
as in miracles and such --
wouldn't that be a nice touch --
No, it isn't too much bother,
but assume that He will not.
And it's not that He forgot.

You choose -- a rose or a carnation?
One's fitted for a crown of thorns,
the other less a coronation
but quite attractively adorns
a suit's lapel, a wreath or laurel?
Well well, I see no need to quarrel,
each has its beauty, truth be told
and can be something to behold.
The rose is taffeta and velvet,
carnation: satin, silken cloth.
The petals are as bright for both,
so put that thought away, and shelve it,
the blossoms need not to compete,
and the arrangement is complete.

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You choose -- a rose or a carnation?
One's fitted for a crown of thorns,
bestowed by a forgetful nation,
so quick to anger as it mourns
the loss of yet one more messiah,
refusing, still, to answer why her
begotten son is not of god.
Was there another that he had?
Or a carnation, lowly flower,
best suited for a laurel wreath,
her dignity so far beneath
of those who seek to wield real power,
but safe, uncomplicated, bright.
In an arrangement, a delight.

What better way to understanding
than simply listening for once?
Stop claiming, wanting and demanding,
and give the answer half a chance.
And no, not only to appease them;
you've no monopoly on wisdom,
and listening, you might just learn
that what they long for and they yearn
is not so different and appalling.
Compassion, dignity, respect.
That's what they want, what they expect
and so would you, should you come calling.
That's what the ancient writings teach.
And also: practice what you preach.

As blessed as it is, fruit of the vine,
it manages to harbor a few curses.
Commanded to imbue by the Divine
in biblical refrains, chapter and verses,
we toast our celebrations with its spirit --
let no one doubt what that is all about --
then in the morning wish we weren't near it,
and on occasion with a bout of gout.
But everything, they say, in moderation.
Today, I'm feeling moderately blessed,
though cannot put a shoe on. In frustration,
I realize my blessings need a rest,
though if there is a way, I have the will.
Turns out, even for this, there is a pill.

From Socrates to Aristotle --
and this might be the key to Locke --
reality is half the battle,
so as I labor to unlock,
and paint myself a better picture,
whether of Marx -- yes, Karl -- or Nietzsche,
but no Immanuel, no Kant,
as far from Plato as a plant,
and neither Qiu or Epicurus,
indulgent with the worst of you,
confusing Yue Fu with haiku
neither philosopher can cure us
from thinking we're not in the know,
and all of this is just for show.

Attempting but to entertain the missus,
discovered me this early little gem.
Off Broadway, which has had its share of misses,
but this one, like a rose still on its stem,
thorns sharp, the petals radiant and textured,
its fragrance filled the audience with joy.
We left without feeling we've been lectured,
a feeling that can easily destroy,
wring out any last semblance of pleasure,
a pointing, wagging finger in your face.
So rare these days -- no lecture -- one must treasure,
must value it, must cherish and embrace.
As mighty as a pen is, it's no hammer.
So fewer proclamations, better grammar.

The better angels of our nature,
us, children of a greater god,
if one believes the nomenclature --
and that's the only one we've had --
where have they gone? What drives our fever,
disdain for any non-believer,
such that these angels have to flee.
We can't agree to disagree,
nor tolerate an opposition,
and so the angels must abide,
must find a proper place to hide.
They're guilty, by their own admission.
Are they the cause, or the effect,
these angels of benign neglect?

Determinism is all the rage of late.
Apparently, you can't reach a decision.
There is no vacuum. What there is is fate,
unfurling with a clockwork like precision,
with every action leading to the next,
in ways that are predictable if only
one had the math to do it; Still, perplexed,
some popular, and most just sad and lonely,
we stumble as the future turns to past,
predictable, but not in ways that matter,
and dying think we're free, we're free at last,
when all we were is but a blotchy splatter
on a gigantic, universal graph.
Where each line ends, though few have had enough.

An omelet without breaking any eggs.
How does one go around such ancient wisdom,
and do it while conforming to the regs --
no liquid egglike product. To appease them,
the ancients that came up with this refrain,
one cannot simply buy it in the store,
and surely there is no need to explain
that nothing would upset the story more
then going out to eat. That's not the spirit
in which the riddle's posed. No, not at all,
so any effort of the sort, or near it,
would surely violate the protocol.
What's left then to attempt, but to renege,
and counter with the chicken or the egg.