Questions of Heroes and Saints

Do heroes have to be perfect

in order to earn our respect?

Must they be free from all blemish?

Is that what we’ve come to expect?

How much stain, how much tarnish,

how much of a character blemish

can be glossed over by splashing

on coats of whitewash and varnish

before the seething and gnashing

of the oppressed leads to the trashing

of monument to those held dear

in eruptions of violent clashing?

The answers, my friends, are clear.

Let’s open our ears and try to hear

the history of brutal oppression

that cause so many to live in fear.

Since if we can’t learn this lesson

we’ll lose more than an election!

Folks, it’s high time to reject

this notion that every hero warrants beatification!

Play These Cards

Why must we, so selfishly

Mourn the cards we didn’t get

Rather than revelling in

Every moment ‘fore we split?

Life comes with no guarentees;

Very sad, but it is true.

Let’s celebrate the hand we have

Before our journey here is through.

Don’t worry what tomorrow brings,

We truly have no way to tell.

We’ve got this now and memories

Of times together, me and you.

Let’s not waste a chip on grief

For what remains inside that shoe,

If we try to hedge this bet

We rob ourselves, both me and you.

Let’s play this hand that we’ve been dealt,

Revel in this very now

Without a thought for for what’s at stake

The pot’s still growing, anyhow!

Reflections on an Image #1

“A Summer’s Idyll”

A lonely chair awaits

By a fountain splashing

For a reader to arrive

With some children laughing.

That scarlet Acer 

Frames this place

Where life assumes

A slower pace.

He sits reading in the sun 

Basking like a lizard,

While the children swirl about

Like snowflakes in a blizzard.

The thrum of distant mowers 

Punctuate the day

And saturates the air

With scents of fresh cut hay.

It’s all a balm for racing thoughts 

But shadows slowly lengthen;

Surliness replaces joy

In spite of every effort taken

And thus, this day, 

Its courses run,

Becomes an idyll;

A dream of fun.

Foxfires’ Promise

 This is not damnation’s omen

Writ in fire ‘cross the sky

No invitation to perdition

No harbinger we all shall die.

Rather Gaia’s verdant curtain 

Holding back the dragon’s breath

The only thing that’s truly certain

To save us all from horrid death.

So when you see the sky aglow

Do not fear the end is nigh

Revel, rather, in the show;

Auroral fire from on high.

Peace in Flight

On this frigid morning,

I don’t even have to try,

To find the face of Buddha

Scrawled across the ice blue sky.

Lidded eyes in quiet contentment,

A ghostly Mona Lisa smile,

Lingers there in frozen heaven,

Visible, for many a mile.

An offered peaceful benediction

To morning travelers on the fly,

Writ on the vault, without intent,

By other travelers flying by.