Reconsidering Strength

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!

Snow forecast yet again…

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!

In Whom To Trust



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!”

Dying and Crying

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.

Slipping Gears

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?