TAKE A HIKE
I did not retire
only to rehire myself.
Take a hike instead.
THE LAST DANCE
When does thought supersede Being?
When the heart’s speed deviates
from Rhythm’s universal beat
which sets the pace of Space
with certain duration and periodic stress.
We think we know best
and reset Rhythm and increase stress.
Too soon upset Rhythm brings cessation
instead of renewable creation.
Wind warns us in no uncertain terms
as she increases the beat of her storms.
With greater force Wind pounds her beat
against every shore, her reverberation so strong
Wind pulls Ocean up and along
where Wind’s new beat covers the skies
with Oceans cries, drowning our own.
The rhythm of Being streams in downloaded scenes
of mountains buckling under Tempo’s fall
while Desert spreads where Tree once danced
in the stately rhythm of ages past.
Discordant sound is now all around.
Too many simply turn up the sound.
After the last dance who will there still Be
to turn the lights back on so we can see?
When does thought supersede greed?
Filed under POETRY
BY THE GATE
I stand by the gate and yearn.
I did not build the fence.
It serves a purpose, I suppose.
I did not build the gate.
There was no intent to close
the being standing here inside.
I stand by the gate and yearn,
by the gate which keeps you away.
It has no lock.
You could lift the latch.
But, you simply wave and walk by.
I stand by the gate and yearn.
For what, I no longer know.
It was not always so.
There was a time
when you would have leapt over
the fence, the gate, any enclosure.
Now, you walk by and wave.
I remember now. I yearn
for you.
Filed under POETRY
HAIKU
NO SNOW
The snow did not come,
seeing no need to blanket
an over-warm earth.
Filed under POETRY
RAIN,RAIN,GO AWAY…
Each drop of rain a gleeful child
sliding down the sloping roof,
screaming into the wind’s sighs,
laughing along the tiles with smiles,
avoiding gutters at the edge
to drop to the softly sodden ground.
Then across the garden playground
they flow happily, after gathering course,
filling and overflowing puddles without remorse,
which wind pushes gently along
in waves of glee amid storm’s sophistry,
forming new rivers and new seas
where birds and gulls dance happily
along their edge of fleeting beauty.
Squirrels dodge and dart
between each sleek drop,
up damp trunks, across wet branches,
taking their chances to slip and slide
on naked trees taking a shower
in the cool air of a warm January bower.
I celebrate life with each drop of rain.
Rain washes away all tears and pain.
Sun will come soon to end such play.
Rain, rain will go away
and come again another day.
Today, I shall run barefoot in the rain.
Filed under POETRY
RAIN CAME TO STAY
Fog and drizzle
drizzle and fog
underwrap
overwrap
low to the ground.
Creep and slide
slide and creep
outside in
inside out
locked up all around.
Soaked and soft
soft and soaked
daylight on
nightlight off
nowhere to be found.
Confused and befuddled
befuddled and confused
sleeping awake
awakening sleep
constantly turned around.
Sun where are you ?
where have you gone ?
Lonely and forgotten
forgotten and alone
my senses confound.
The rain keeps coming down.
And down, and down,
and down.
Filed under POETRY
RINGSIDE
We are all in the ring
or sitting ring-side
ready to bet, cheering and loud.
Our faces are flushed
with the lust to succeed.
It has become every nation’s creed.
The struggle brings
too much sorrow to contain
in the single, small vessels
that we be.
It is not for me alone that I mourn;
but, for all facing hardships and doubts
only they can know and feel
like blows to the ribs, upper cuts to the jaw,
bruised to the bone,
forlorn and alone.
Have we forgotten how to be
part of a peaceful community,
of teachers and students,
of priests and congregations,
of parents and children,
of even two lovers such as we?
Or, is the struggle meant to be
single combat waged separately?
Every direction I glance I see
a fight-ring where combatants dance.
I take no comfort, feel no glee
in fisted gloves or bare-knuckled fights.
I feel every blow on my own body.
Stop building such rings
and dismantle those we see.
Or, is the betting too lucrative
and are con-men too attractive
to bring to an end
their fronting the purse
we all think we can win,
while they abscond with millions
and tell us great lies?
How could we not have learned
playing chance with fire
means we all will get burned.
While we fight,
they win.
Filed under POETRY
MOLES IN DEMOCRACY’S GARDEN
Democracy, listen to me !
The thing that brings you down
shows you the way up
and turns you around.
Once buried deep inside
like a mole it tunneled deep
until it surfaced with nowhere to hide.
Finally, you see and can follow its trail,
the one it uses to make you fail.
As it once used you,
now, you can use it, too.
It shows you its way,
this mole which would lead
all in your garden astray.
Their ruse is finally up, I say.
Now, all can see the mole
that disrupts your glory,
that twists your best story
into lost ideals and weakens
you and steals your garden’s beauty.
Finally, you can do your duty.
The mole’s trail, you can follow
and truth can overcome the hollow
shouts of destructive success
as you clean up mole’s mess
and make your garden look its best.
Follow the mole, uproot its trails.
Fill in its tunnels.
Dig deeper than ever before,
Democracy, to restore;
and, reseed the garden
until it becomes true
that this garden is the best of you.
Democracy, never fear.
A new Spring will soon be here.
Filed under POETRY
GREY DAYS
Some days are more difficult than others
and paint will not dry fast enough
to add the details which make the canvass
come alive in form and color.
The grey, pregnant clouds cover the sky
from end to end and roll over again ,and again,
blocking the sun and the light in one’s eye.
The brush sits, waiting in the palm.
The heart sits, waiting out the storm.
The canvass sits waiting
as empty as life seems to be.
But, artists know better than to fear
the light has died forever.
Artists simply wait out the storm,
paint the clouds above the crowd
of grey and dull thoughts;
and, write the words bold and loud.
Some days are more difficult than others,
thank goodness.
They challenge the artist and poet inside
and offer them a place to hide.
Until the sun rises high in the sky.
then artists and poets run outside,
paint and words flying far and wide.
Filed under POETRY
RACISM IS THE POINT
Missing the point is the point
when racism dodges and ducks
to avoid the naming of the shrew
which lurks amidst us.
She used to hang out in back alleys
where garbage was tossed away
until collected on trash day.
We set aside days to collect trash
but we allow Racism to stay.
We used to encourage her to hide.
We used to pretend we did not see.
Now, she proudly raises her head
and we simply turn away.
We now allow her to roam the streets,
invite her to give a speech,
welcome her to boardrooms
and classrooms and banks.
In-bed her in textbooks and blogs.
Elevate her upon congressional seats.
She has been the mistress home alone
who now insists on ascending the throne.
She usefully changes the subject
and beguiles all who question
those who embrace her in darkness.
She hides their other secrets,
their lust for power and wealth.
She emboldens their lust
and steals democracy from us
as a means of slaking her the need
for her own power and greed.
Racism is the point man
in the class war being waged.
Racism leads the oligarchic troop,
slakes its thirst to be first into the fray,
Racism guides their way and ours.
Racism entices us and breaks us apart.
Racism is the point.
