My son, if the moon
could talk to the sun, what do
you think she would say?
~
“You light up my life,
give me hope to carry on,
and you fill my nights with song.”
My son, if the moon
could talk to the sun, what do
you think she would say?
~
“You light up my life,
give me hope to carry on,
and you fill my nights with song.”
If the proof is in
the pudding, is it fifty,
or sixty, or older still?
~
At whatever age
we are, the test of any
pudding comes with the eating.
What draws a poet
to look both at and beyond
the ordinary?
~
Longing deep enough
to strip away the surface;
endless search for hidden truth.
Is the problem with
running, knowing when to start
or, more likely, when to quit?
~
To run or not to
run lies at the very heart
of this elective matter.
When temptation rears
its seductive head, how do
we go about keeping ours?
~
Relax. All’s not lost.
That ugly, hungry, head might
be creation’s crown instead.
What is one to do
when the universe calls for
steam but all the wood is burnt?
~
This is what happens
when the universe calls and
we and the wood are burned out.
Which is easier:
to go with the flow or nod
and appear to know?
~
Neither the dead fish
nor the bobble-headed doll
are finding much wisdom.
Is there anything
simpler than wanting ease
that’s harder to get?
~
Wanting is simple;
getting hardly ever is –
a simple, uneasy truth.
When simplicity
is not so simple, why not
go for multiplicity?
~
Simplicity is
simple! You simply have to
labor for its creation.
Does the cult of fame
serve more as an indictment
of the famous or of us?
~
Blind worship cannot
serve either the worshiped or
the worshiper well.