Tuesday, December 1, 2015
On the street where I live
On this night while I write.
What is happening here and now.
This intricate melody.
Who can hear with me?
Share a moment in all of eternity?
Skips in time to deeply held tune.
What is Truth?
What is true?
Feet above ground.
Sky permeates – ambient air all around.
Here and now.
We’re all in this leaky boat --
best that we get along, learn to work
together, to do what we need to all survive.
It doesn’t have to be dull or drudgery.
We can swing into a fine ol’ work party:
Blazing music, playful dance,
extemporaneous doggerel, happy inebriance,
exuberant good will.
Even if, especially if, this is all we’ll ever have
our lives (each and every) matter to each other.
And if there is a more to truly desire,
together we reach that much higher.
In the imaginable future we might have technology to allow for everyone to devise anything they can imagine, and even trade these creations out of pride and awe. When we all can easily access everything we need, what will be an economy??
Like a dancing skeleton
Surely we’ve all seen them
round and about.
Moving to rhythms that clack
Able to leap out of bounds without
bouncing too loud
without alarming the crowd
above and below.
Structure. Elegant harmonies
tripping the clefs and scales,
long anointed notation.
We need structure, a past to build on.
Flexibly fashioned to weather storms,
to build anew.
Waiting for the Sun --
Lightbringer, creating morning.
Who will you portray today?
Autumn wanes. Pallid days
invite a distance from permeating
sadness, a jolly fantasy
to lighten weary travel over
Before loving fire enfolds,
warms through, what can we do
to ease mass anxieties?
See something beautiful in lucent
crystal – light we carry, share, renew.
It’s not that there is something wrong with
Exposed as they are, no ones in particular,
moving parts of the endless crowd.
It’s that there is something wrong,
with them. Irritants slowing their spokes,
clogging their gums, holding them out of step,
out of sorts,
eventually overwhelmed with rust and ruin.
Reasons to Be Thankful
cut-outs for lighted windows.
Inside, stories are shared, embellished
to suit the mood.
Mrs. Rio’s son flew into combat.
See her so brave, civilly smiling,
wishing well to each partier who greets her.
But don’t we all have our masked anxieties,
sorrows, shames? Civilly shaking hands,
breathing deeply to hold from shaking
inappropriately. Please, more liquid dullness,
more chemical restraint.
More strident complaint of political --
yes Our World’s gone to hell!
How dare THEY tell us how to behave!
I’ve a mind to blast them all into atoms,
to take a stand against whomever crosses
my path without due regard.
When did everything get so hard,
so unyielding, so thick?
I know there was a once we made more sense,
gave more embracing warmth.
There are stories.
What are yours?