Poems

Apparently, two wrongs don't make a right.
Arithmetic is hardly my dominion,
but having seen how right is made with might,
inclined to think it merely an opinion
and not a fundamental, rigid law,
a rule that doesn't tolerate exception,
or axiom from which conclusions flow,
enhancing understanding and perception.

Exasperated, I'm in search of proof,
refuse to be accused of dereliction,
but bound by duty to remain aloof
in separating tested fact from fiction.

Results are coming in, it won't take long.
Unless, of course, I'm doing something wrong.

reason is the harshest prison
trapped by maybes and what ifs
day is rarely for the seizin'
wisdom, precious of all gifts
will seek comfort over freedom
caged birds sing because you feed 'em

Author notes: image from shutterstock.com

Conspiracists that graduate to practice --
mere theories no longer all the rage,
and further, insufficient to distract us.
By practicing, they manage to engage.

Bear witness to the recent UFO news.
The Pentagon, and hearings on the Hill.
Aways from big ole' Bigfoot with his snowshoes,
or choosing the right color for your pill.

What is this urgent need for hidden meaning,
for proving that there is a puppeteer
dictating ways in which each leaf is leaning
and nobody and nothing is sincere?

The one and only "truth" of which we're certain:
there is indeed a man behind the curtain.

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