Poems

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.

There is a forest that exists:
abandoned trails, forgotten beasts,
where tiny streams play well-tuned chimes.
Witches and fairies talk in rhymes;
they trade you wishes for a kiss,
and promise you eternal bliss.

Author notes: image from Facebook

Cranes fly south for the winter
as souls crack and splinter
ice creeps into veins
until no love remains
Crane -- do find other work
and come back as a stork!

Author notes: Artwork is by Chie Yoshii

Knives out, we pull our chairs up to the table,
and sit, while dreading that which is to come.
No, love is not enough. We are unable --
wherever we may be or we are from --
unable to suppress our hurts and losses.
Find difficulty in expressing love.
The hurts seem to win out. We bear our crosses,
and see those closest as the cause thereof.
Yet most of us come back to face this music,
accompanied by chimes of Jingle Bells.
If God looks in, must find it quite amusing,
these get togethers, all those little hells...
And then it's all kiss, kiss, until next year.
A step outside. A sigh. We're in the clear.

before Dr. Phil's, pills and Oprah
when music was concert and opera
and opera wasn't for soap
just how did we manage to cope
and what did we do with our laundry
please answer me this little quandary

I came across an ancient oak
which had refused the Fall,
his neighbors bare. When asked, he spoke,
a voice meant to enthrall:

"I care not for the seasons, child,
nor for the Day or Night.
How hot, how cold, unpleasant, mild,
a time was, I'd delight

in every variance and change
but I no longer care.
When nothing's new and nothing's strange,
why would I have to bare

my mighty branches to the wind
as if I stand in awe?
Go tell the seasons to rescind,
go on and tell them so."

I asked the lush and sprawling giant:
"Don't you know regret?
You stand there, mighty and defiant,
as the seasons let,

but have you ever loved another?
Standing all alone,
no acorn you can call a brother,
tired and overgrown,

in your own shadow, and no doubt,
you do not crack or bend,
but all these years to go without
a tree to call a friend..."

He interrupted: "there was once
a tall and pretty fir.
We had a bit of a romance,
I was soo fond of her.

She liked to needle me, the lass,
but gently, in good fun.
We grew and watched the seasons pass.
Together, we were one.

Then one cold day a lumberjack
arrived and set her free.
I called to him: will she be back?
He laughed, said Christmas tree.

'Twas then that I decided that
I'll never fall again.
Let Winter try its best to flatten,
bears sleep in their den,

but I will stand here and defy,
leaves green as if it's June,
as if a fledgling butterfly
just morphed from its cocoon."

Fell silent, there was not a sound
except the sound of grief.
And then I noticed, on the ground,
a single, wilted leaf.

A narrator, reliable or not,
should still deliver something of a tale:
so be it of a land that time forgot,
or a mundane affair, he must regale
his audience with brevity and wit,
omitting needles words but keeping those
that matter even just a little bit.
Remembering to plot and juxtapose,
while banishing a hero here and there,
their absence timed to make the heart grow fonder,
and I'd suggest, especially, beware
of failing to maintain a sense of wonder.
When all is said and done, the work complete,
don't hesitate: hit save, and then submit.

I'm often asked: how do you pick a subject
for this or that unlikely composition?
A tired, stale cliche, or just an object
that's placed in an unusual position.

A dialog between two silent partners
so caught in an unlikely dialectic
that the ensuing conversation garners
reactions from the rad to apoplectic.

Attempts to wax poetically are often
too maudlin to earn their weight in paper.
Eschew the urge to decorate and soften.
Ethereal, like tiny whisps of vapor

is great for a deodorant commercial.
I aim for the bizarre and controversial.

"Picture yourself", said the travel brochure.
Sunsets so pretty, and water so pure,
Mediterranean, AirBnB,
perfect to write your to be, not to be.

Author notes: image from Facebook

Be it llama or alpaca
on the lake of Titicaca
you will see a world that was
be no stranger to the cause,
even though you're just a tourist,
to preserve it in its purest.

Author notes: image from nationalgeographic.com