Poems

A ripple on the surface of the pond
disturbs its eerie, mirror like perfection,
then dissipates, and eager to respond,
the water settles back upon reflection,
that being its true purpose -- sate our need
to probe, indeed to challenge our existence
and validate the basis of our creed:
yes we are in His image, though some distance
remains between what's perfect and what's us.
So easy to reach out for that ideal:
a mere stretch of the hand, so why the fuss?
But try to grasp it -- it was never real...
Recoiling from your touch, the ripples spread,
and taunt you: in His image? Or His stead?

A beach vacation: labor to pretend
that we are meant to lead a life of leisure,
to sift with carefree fingers through the sand,
no, not in search of hidden prize or treasure,
but for a sense of timelessness. To us
the hourglass, a metaphor for being.
Where better then to discourse, to discuss,
or hide, for some, from time itself, all-seeing,
than in the flowing dunes that wrap the shore
in infinite and precious, precious seconds.
Dare waste a whole week's worth, and ask for more,
reality be damned, the siren beckons,
out there where the horizon draws a line.
Come, join with me, she sings. The water's fine.

Some condiments were having a discussion
on topics that are difficult to relish.
"How did  this happen?!", ketchup, flushed with passion,
his tendency to sweeten and embellish
more evident than ever. "How, and why?!"

The others at the table staying quiet,
till mustard, jaundiced, ventured a reply:
"Because they're stronger, ketchup, why deny it,
and boast of fewer calories to boot!
Sure, mayonnaise and ketchup keep on pressing
but their entire effort rendered moot
if no one gets or asks for Russian dressing."

Defiant, ketchup said: "We'll form a lobby,
and stop the spread of curry and wasabi!"

My travels -- came across an ancient tomb.
Near Ankara, where continents collide.
A quick onceover with a handy broom
and time starts yielding that which tried to hide.

Sarcophagus, a solid mass of gold
Inscriptions in what seems like ancient Greek,
They start, the letters carved in large and bold:
"Turn back while you still can, and do not seek

that which you cannot have, or pay the price!"
Pried open the humongous coffin's lid.
Inside --  a gilded mummy, dressed up nice.
Tried taking it all with him, that he did.

The rest reads: "This is Midas, he knew hunger,
but wishes he was cursed when he was younger."

Is math abstract? The beauty of a spiral,
when captured in a sluggish mollusk's shell?
A dandelion picture going viral,
a ladybug that's resting for a spell
on leaves designed by unrelenting fractals
to gobble sunshine up. Though it's no bird,
nor relative of ancient pterodactyls,
Bernoulli is a name she's never heard,
she nonetheless can fly as though the ether,
(replace it by a boffin's quantum foam),
can lift her as she soars, the land beneath her
a temporary respite, not a home.
An elegant equation tells the tale.
A ladybug, a flower, and a snail.

A wave swells up and crashes on the beach.
The sanderlings, undaunted, scoot away,
continuing to forage out of reach,
then rushing back before the salty spray
has had a chance to dissipate or dry.

Beaks polished by the unforgiving sand
hunt, peck at tiny morsels washed up by
the grey, relentless sea onto the land,
an ancient, immemorial dispute
with the reluctant shore, to gain, lose ground,
while scavengers, both slow and light of foot,
play out their shallow parts, all to the sound
of clockwork, indefatigable tides.

Observing, but refusing to pick sides.

Necessity, Invention often mentions,
as strict a mother as you might expect,
which, leading to innumerable tensions
and loss of self esteem and self respect,
resolved at last through therapeutic sessions,
expensive as they were, more to the point,
a lust for the material possessions
that tweak her mother's nose all out of joint.

Such conflicts with our fathers and our mothers --
must we achieve because we are annoyed,
exhausted by the pointing out of others?
Or does the answer really lie with Freud?

Dear mother, I've invented something new,
and all because I long for "proud of you".

If there's no hell, then where are all the devils,
as surely you're not meaning to imply
that Dante's dark Inferno, all nine levels,
are absent any guide or passer by,
and simply his inflamed imagination?
The poet and his vision of a hell
where each receives according to their station,
proceed with caution, never mind the smell,
made up? An Alighieri allegory?
A children's tale to frighten those who sin,
an ending for in the beginning's story,
a payback for what happened in between?

Assuming that's your take, the answer's clear.
If there's no hell, the devils are all here.

Apocalypse, predictions notwithstanding,
will only happen once, so just relax,
and stop it with the ceaseless, never-ending
lamenting of the passing of the Pax
Romana -- have you seen the coliseum,
where gladiators ready for the stage?
Their pay is pretty good, although per diem --
per Cicero, the orator and sage.
I hear we've brought in prisoners from Zion,
who seem to think their god will intervene.
The odds are ten to one, but on the lion.
Expecting that is something to be seen!

So go ahead and mark this in your journal:
abandon fear, our city is eternal.

a kiss, and elemental bliss
but it will make her sadder, colder
since although nothing seems amiss
she's not the loved, but the beholder

Author notes: image from FineArtAmerica.com

I wake in search of somebody to cancel.
A quick search of the news to prompt my fury,
discarding paper pad and sharpened pencil,
and more an executioner than jury,

assembling what evidence I find,
I channel pent up rage in all directions --
can't be the last to comment. Top of mind
is critical. Apologies, corrections --

the tools of the oppressors -- and the weak,
-- that's us in us and them, in case you wonder --
we must be heard, and louder, when we speak,
to drown their hatred with our righteous thunder.

Wait. Why is there a story with my name?
It looks like someone woke. And I'm to blame.

perennial, we lack the flower's power
of seasonal renewal and rebirth
and fear the certain coming of the hour
that destines our return to Mother Earth
so tendril like, we let our roots reach out
and search for signs of hope in every sprout

Author notes: image from bouqs.com