Propelled irresistibly
Downstream, caught,
An unstoppable flood.
Images flash,
Uprooted trees,
Lost in the maelstrom.
Swirling flotsam, jetsam,
Tattered bits
shattered pieces
all once held dear.
Beloved people,
Untethered from context
Favorite places,
Unstuck from foundations,
Cherish mementos,
Unshelved from order.
Rolling downstream,
Dooming all ahead,
More weight behind
This churning mass.
Driving inexorably
toward quiet peace
in endless, silent seas.
Perhaps it just has been
A long, exhausting day
But as I lay in bed
Preparing for my slumber
A random thought intrudes
Upon my tired mind,
“Is it deeper meaning,
Or purely circumstance,
That the Nazgul number
Just so coincides
With the number of
Flying reindeer hides?”
And I ask myself
As I drift in wonder,
“Now that seems an odd thought
For a fleeting, late night ponder.”
And if that thought continues,
It only stands to reason
That Santa Claus IS Sauron
In Mordor’s twisted Christmas Season.
Would you heed an amoeba
who told you that he knew
the mind and will of the man
inside of whose guts he grew?
Would you heed an amoeba
who insisted that the Man
that’s everywhere and everything
shared, just with him, his plan?
Would you heed an amoeba
who said with somber tone,
that if you did just what he said
he’d escort you strait to Man’s throne?
And what about the spirochete
that said amoeba just might meet
in some dark alley or lonely street?
I pray that germ can take the heat!
Sacred writing is high art
and though I’d love to do my part,
I just can’t seem to find the heart
to find the words that will impart
higher meaning to this brain-fart.
Perhaps if I weren’t quite so hostile,
I could write a holy gospel!
The poem that the poet pens
Is never the same, and
not nearly as meaningful as
the poem that the reader reads.
We poets who
wish to write,
will always find
our voice in verse.
The less I write
upon this page,
the more there is
for you to read here.
While on my rounds again
today, I stopped by that
place to pause in the lot,
enjoying a moment of calm,
while reflecting upon the chaos.
When the only tool
you have’s a hammer,
every thing, in this world,
resembles a nail.
But as for me,
my box is full,
so it should come
as no surprise
when we fail
to see eye to eye!
Even though
this may be true,
we can still build bridges,
me and you!
While strolling through the forest,
I find a thinning of the trees,
where broken bricks jut from the earth
among a floor of emerald green
and daffodils, in stately rows,
march between the younger trees.
A pair of boxwood side by side
thrive in mounds, both tall and wide,
grown unruly, no tending love,
as wisteria drape the boughs above.
There is a silence hanging here,
A sense of expectation breathes,
And there, amid the blades of grass,
a china cup, half filled with leaves.
When they hear it,
some hear anger,
rife with seething,
inner rage
in that Red Tail’s
screeching call.
But as for me,
I hear hunger
in that hollow,
banshee cry.
It’s clear to see
some hear that too
as sparrows flee,
diving for cover,
to avoid her
fierce embrace.
Yet foolish dove,
cooing, trusts her
And I have yet to fathom why.
Please attend, young rider,
To the reasons for your ride.
This ride is not a stakes race
to be run in urgent haste,
no prize to finish first,
for, if you rush, it is a waste.
Neither is it steeplechase,
full of obstacles to leap.
Some gates are often better balked,
And out of grievous harm to keep.
Not dressage, all form and show,
where others sit and sniff and snort
at any slip of false control.
Pursuing perfection is hollow sport.
Nor cartage, in harsh traces ride,
dragging draught day after day.
That’s a trip I can’t abide,
not in the least, no how, no way!
But just to ride on sunny day
and see the world along the way,
now that’s a ride worthy to take
And a life’s journey I choose to make.
For some, this is no time of cheer,
No verdant season of regrowth.
But rather more a time of grief,
Of bitter dread, of loss, and worse.
And though it’s bad, it is no Autumn,
Nor even Winter, devoid of mirth.
If I seem sad, please, do not fear
I have, not yet, surrendered hope.
On a day when one man,
Able, and healthy, and strong,
Signs up to leave and double his pay,
Another man, in that same modest town,
Disabled, infirm, and unsound,
Offers, meekly, to give his labor away.
And of these two men,
The choice of but one
Warrants my laude and honor this day.
He gives without thought of personal gain,
Even though his choice is a cause of great pain.
Aroil in Pain 