In hopeless effort to preserve
Some last shread of sanity,
A meager sliver of self respect,
Tonight I slough the hair shirt,
Hang my scourge upon it’s hook
And shun the civic dumb show.
Tonight I revel in ignorant bliss,
Neither knowing or caring
Who, on the tube, is the bigger boob!
Stanislav Petrov
Was punished as a failure
For saving the world
Why do my eyes burn?
Is an illness descending
Or is it fatigue,
What might we regret
in lonely final hours
and we contemplate our fate?
~
Might we not regret
all our reckless use of might
without due contemplation?
~
Or might we regret
a timid intervention
allowing fright to triumph?
~
Or might there be no regrets
because we acted in good faith
after careful contemplation?
Rainfall in sunlight
Awash in mixed emotions
At fall’s arrival
Halfway through the morning
And the cruise control’s still on.
Time to disconnect the auto-pilot
And re-engage with life.
It is just past this blog’s second birthday and I just went back and reread some of my early posts… boy was I angry and bitter when this all began! Upon that seething sea of vitriolic verse float a few driftwood gems. I think I will, occasionally, reblog the ones that don’t, sort of, suck.
BLACK is rarely black. WHITE, rarely white.
At the intersection of compassion and want,
ALL are shades of gray.
Some claim a man’s measure
lies in something tangible;
stature, strength,
fame, fortune.
I find none of these
to be a fitting yardstick.
I measure Harry’s worth
by his stories shared;
comedies, tragedies,
dramas, histories.
Within these saga
of adventure gone awry,
whether joyous, humble,
painful, proud,
of good times, or Ill,
I found his humanity,
well hidden
behind gruff temperament,
masked by mumbled words,
infused with vital spirit,
and most profanely punctuated.
It’s not despite these flaws,
so much as because of them,
that his life of love and loss,
dangers and trials,
hardships and misadventures,
resonate within my soul
and remain with me forever.
Godspeed my old friend.
Only days ago
Weathered old barns and silos,
Living history,
Stood above this flowered lea.
Icons of the past.
Crowns of strength and dignity.
Upon that hilltop,
Remote source of mystery.
Removed now from sight.
Soon to serve some other need?
Monument to modern greed?
Today, when you asked
How things, at work, were going,
Little did I know,
I did not know the answer.
I said all was well,
And yet, without my knowledge,
Policies were changed
Making it impossible
For me to do my job
And all the tasks required.
Seems like old Loki
Found a brand new Avatar
Trumpeting for Ragnarok
Like sloughing a cloak
Or kicking blankets aside
Humidity falls
Allowing Autumn breezes
To elicit grateful sighs
Of course I must ask, “Why oh why”?
Were you out there chasing a high?
Or was this just help’s feeble cry?
Did you really intend to die?
What I can’t fathom, hard as I try;
How could you leave without a goodbye!
What, about this rain,
Yields this yearning for a book
Beside blazing fire
And, perhaps, a purring cat
Upon blanket covered lap?
Aroil in Pain 