All writing

A rendering of Hammurabi's Law.
Cuneiforms etched onto pliant clay,
the stylus having marked them with its claw.
A manual for those who go astray,
and those who, come what may, bring them to justice.
Our oldest penal code, eye for an eye.
The ancient king first codified the practice
of never letting any bygones by,
but surely wasn't first in application.
No, that must go way back, before the flood.
Before our tribe had use for rank or station,
we knew that blood must always answer blood.
Is it a wonder, then, that for our kind
it is the blind that tend to lead the blind?

nothing as filling
as alphabet soup
poured from a pencil

Author notes: image from thewriter.com

Quill dipped in ink, what's it to be?
A tale of star crossed lovers?
A windswept isle, a stormy sea,
a general that discovers
his cheating wife, but it's a plot?
To be -- he writes --  to be or not.

Author notes: image from thenewyorker.com

Day after day, she knots the flowers.
If it were only in her powers,
she'd grant each wish and each desire,
but as it is, works without tire,
sends them for those who love, or mourn.
She knows no rose without a thorn.

Author notes: Image from beaudryflowers.ca

The unexamined life is not worth living,
as Socrates quite famously proclaimed.
So though the years have been less than forgiving,
decided to examine it, reframed.

"But wait!", I hear, "It's surely way too early.
You're barely past the midpoint, as it were,
and neither too irascible nor surly.
You'd better wait until there's a there, there."

As to the surly, I would beg to differ,
though I do try to nip it at the source.
My joints ache when it rains, and plenty stiffer
than back when Socrates was just a course.

That Socrates, I am a huge supporter.
Examined it.  Appears to be in order.

I came across some root of all that's evil,
unfortunately, not of all that's good.
A root like any other. Its retrieval
was easier than could have been, or should.

Replanted it, remembering to water.
Got ready to collect my dividends,
but nothing grew: no, not even a quarter.
No means to help effectuate my ends.

Perhaps my ends are morally uncertain,
not evil in the strict sense of the word?
I've tried to ask the man behind the curtain
and listening to every little bird...

Reviewed life's lessons past the birds and bees.
Turns out that money doesn't grow on trees.

orange haze above the waters
sun gets ready for its bath
ocean sends its faithful daughters
wave by wave towards the path
men had left here, long ago
and the sky observes, aglow

these truths are primeval:
first, lunch isn't free
the root of all evil
won't grow on a tree
the funniest stories
those too will get old
but it won't shut up those
that say silence is gold

if money is the root of all evil
why doesn't it grow on trees

The Devil said: "It's time for a parade.
Arrange the sinners into neat platoons,
according to the order Dante made,
and march them to the sound of martial tunes."

Beelzebub objected: "Foulness, please!
You know we simply cannot square a circle,
it is a rule of angles and degreesss..."
Trailed off with an apologetic gurgle.

"Get Euclid and Pythagoras to work",
his boss demanded, willing him to silence,
"or you will get demoted back to clerk.
Don't bore me with your can't be dones and science."

Beelzebub complied, but though he's fly,
has failed to overcome the humble Pi.

Unhappy couples, each in their own way --
as Tolstoy said in his immortal book --
should I feel guilty, or be thankful, pray?
Avert my eyes, be trying not to look?

We do not, no, we cannot understand.
Our feelings are too maudlin, too sappy.
For those of us who're dealt a better hand,
a nagging question: can't they just be happy?

Is there some special secret to the task?
No shortage of advisors and well wishers.
You've but to raise a hand, begin to ask,
and they're at work repairing cracks and fissures.

The answer I subscribe to and espouse:
We know, deep down, the day we make our vows.

A fairytale, its moral loud and clear,
attempted to regain a little balance.
Why even try? That's neither there nor here.
Since subtlety was not among its talents,
it set about the task with grim resolve,
determined to convert reluctant readers,
convinced their understanding will evolve:
what better way to groom those future leaders!
It soon discovered it is not alone,
as all the other fairytales endeavor
to expiate, aby, and to atone
in ways some call unnatural, some clever.
Do they succeed in their desired missions?
Beyond compare, can't find the old editions.