Failing Dams

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.

Advertisements

Perhaps Christmas in Mordor?

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.

Theology 101: Social Control for Dummies

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!

A Teatime Long Forgotten 

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.

Buteo Jamaicensis Keens

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.

Equitation Lessons

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.

Meeker Master

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.