Poems

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.

When Occam cut himself while shaving,
the razor being nice and sharp,
though wasn't prone to misbehaving,
you would have needed a loud harp
to mask the constant stream of curses,
in erudite, prim Latin verses
that came from the frustrated monk,
the kind he wouldn't utter drunk.
There's a straightforward explanation:
be you philosopher or king,
a minor irritant might bring
a call for hellfire and damnation.
No need to wonder why that's so,
since if it happens, you will know.

a hungry calf laps up the milk
that Hera spilled across the dark
as centaurs frolic with their ilk
Orion following his mark

our minds will play connect the dots
to cover distances so vast
that light is bound to change its spots
and when it does arrive at last

its source may not be lit at all
a glowing ember into ash
or by its starry protocol
exploded, burned up in a flash

when searching for a way to beat
the limits posed by dark and light
get on your porch and take a seat
and look up at the sky at night

The elephant that isn't in the room,
a rare, indeed extraordinary beast,
more often, it is safer to assume,
appearing when it is expected least.
Tries managing, unwanted, through the doors,
while everyone pretends it isn't there,
since noticing the damage to the floors,
like saying that the emperor is bare,
primarily reveals a lack of manners,
particular to those of modest wisdom,
unseasoned in the ways of lords and banners,
still unaware of needing to appease them,
and wont to say: but surely, there it stands!
Sophisticates will offer: it depends.

sea demands to be seen
in perpetual motion
my eyes drawn to the scene
here's a drop in the ocean
try to follow its path
as it's swept by the current
they have figured the math
but maths simply aren't
persuasive at all
not for aquamarine
I am out for a stroll
sea demands to be seen

Our loneliness: for surely we all share
this terrible, intractable affliction;
to make its burden easier to bear,
for some of us the answer is addiction,
while others will surround themselves with friends
and claim that they are wholly unaffected;
for those it seems the party never ends --
despair will strike when it is least expected.
But some will seek this doleful, wistful state,
preferring their own thoughts as a companion.
They seek to mold, to contour, to create --
their isolation like the deepest canyon,
or loneliest of islands in the ocean,
the water deep but drained of all emotion.

A subject liked to argue with his verbs,
accusing them of very little action,
which, he insisted, troubles and disturbs,
while offering the inverse of attraction.
The verbs confessed that they were at a loss,
suggesting that he study up on grammar
but he persisted (after all, the boss)
and threatened them with long stays in the slammer.
To settle things, they've chosen arbitration,
conjunctions serving as both judge and jury,
though adverbs did articulate frustration,
if short of what a noun would label fury.
The subject, smugly, offered no repentance.
No choice then, for the court, but read the sentence.

As history's rewritten by the whiners
to fit into a perishable mold,
ostensibly to benefit the minors
who Peter Pan like, aren't growing old --
except that Peter Pan must be rewritten,
its sense and sensibility offend,
so those that are twice shy though never bitten
can be assured, when skipping to the end,
the nasty alligator is a vegan,
and time does not expire for Captain Hook,
whose pistol, it turns out, was just a pea gun.
In summary, a safer, better book.
Will history, revisited, repeat?
Rewritten, it is always incomplete.

I asked a graceful heron: would you rather
that death came in midflight, out of the blue?
Before the years have had their chance to gather --
each sunrise is as fresh as morning dew,
a jumping frog still sends a thrill of pleasure,
and standing on one leg maintains its charm;
your pointy beak adept at finding treasure
and mighty wings that keep you out of harm
with but a single flap of quill and feather?
Or is old age a better way to die,
your skin an older, thinner brand of leather,
the wings no longer strong enough to fly?
So wise, the heron, but he wouldn't say.
Just nodded a goodbye. Then flew away.

a butterfly wings
are they cause or effect
uncertainty won't let us measure
like so many things
that are hard to detect
predicting a moment to treasure
a flap, there she goes
she is lighter than air
and somewhere a storm gets to brewing
she caused it? who knows
but I can't help but stare
and wonder if it's all her doing