Endless highways of Troubles
These endless lines
Lines in the sand
Lines of control
Lines of blow
Party Lines
Airlines
Lines
Bah!
But
Circles?
Circle jerk
Circle of friends
Circling the drain
“All my life’s a circle”
Damned traffic circles
Closed loops of revolving troubles.
Knitting syllables,
Crocheting lush sentences,
Weaving giant tapestries,
Poets warm the whole world’s soul.
Down by the river
Earth, Air, Fire, and Water
Meet to discuss spring.
Why must we, so often,
Draw lines in the sand
And stick to our guns
Due to honor and pride?
Since when is it weakness
To consider, debate,
And then back away from
Decisions made in haste?
I can’t help but feel
That this kind of strength
Is the worst kind of weakness
We have lurking inside.
Bitter disappointment
And horrible losses
We then label victory?
What a terrible waste!
Time to stock essentials!
But not, so it would seem,
Things upon a normal list
Like bread or milk or meat.
For the lady at the front
Apparently that means
Two packs of Newports
And a giant bottle of Chablis.
To the man in between
Essentials seem to be
A case of drinking water,
Deodorant, and hot tea.
These choices of selection
May seem odd to me
But I shudder to even think
Of what those people see:
For in my cart they’ll
Find the things
I need to get me through;
Two bags of food:
One for dog, one for cat,
A case of no salt cut green beans,
A ice cold coke,
And that is that!
Phil, in his terror,
From Pennsylvania countryside,
Warned of six more weeks of winter
Then crawled back in his hole to hide.
Now it’s scarcely three weeks later,
And Crocus wants another vote
About the coming of the springtime
And shedding of that winter’s coat.
His small green toes
thrust from the ground,
Dipped in the snow
And felt around.
Ignoring all those Icy towers
And bitter chills he did not mind,
He hollered to the other flowers,
“Come on out! The weather’s fine!”
This Homogeneity
Breeds Hegemony.
Demassify Culture
Before it’s too late.
Infinite diversity is,
Not only interesting
But, vital to survival.
If you find your faith lacks spontaneity,
Or is burdened by homogeneity,
You can either walk out
Or else, scream and shout,
But blame both the priests and the laity.
Here I stand waiting, listening to the hissing
Code like chirping of teapot slowly heating.
And while I’m waiting, cogitating
Upon the way that hate is simmering
All across the globe.
I see it in the labored breathing
Of the news men’s rage filled seething
And their incoherent screaming
While I stand there in my grieving
With fading hope for a peaceful world.
Why don’t I feel the common loathing
For that other cultures clothing?
Why am I not out there berating
Them about their way of praying
To their God, so like my own?
I must assist, while my son is growing,
In some way, to leave him knowing
That beneath this endless killing
There remains, ready and willing,
People capable of love.
The hour grows late
And much remains to be done.
But motivation
Fled long before light faded
Leaving in the dusk
Many tasks uncompleted
And a growing sense of dread.
This familiar place
Remains uncomfortable
Even with frequent visits.
Impetus for change
Appears to be no match for
Entrenched habits,
Perhaps changing scenery
Will also change perspective?
To feast on road salt
Many a song bird practice
Minuets with grief
Rubaiyat, Sonnet,
Haiku, Tanka, Senryū,
Quatrain, Mondo-Sedōka.
A Bussokuseki!
We Wait
And wait
And wait.
Take a number,
And wait
And wait
And wait.
Understand hate,
And wait
And wait
And wait.
Enter a Zen state,
And wait
And wait
And wait.
Forget about hate,
And wait
And wait
And wait.
The hour grows late,
And wait
And wait
And wait.
It’s the DMV, mate!
In this winter sky’s
Heavenly conjunction
Passions run amok
Aroil in Pain 