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.
When real issues go
ignored and lies unchallenged,
what happens to a nation?
~
The state of nations
rests in the quite able hands
of its honest citizens.
When the pain rises,
like mad sparks, shocking vision,
where can relief’s glimmer be?
~
I’ve heard when one’s heart
also opens to the pain
of others, relief can come.
How do we shift gears
when we’re stuck in park and can’t
seem to get moving?
~
Perhaps shifting gears
is simply insufficient.
Maybe we need to switch cars.
Would you call manic,
that reckless fool, who’s surfing
this hurricane’s jagged break?
~
He’s the one who’d call
us comfort-loving fools. Who’s
to say where the real truth lies?
After we’ve taken
a fall, how best to cope with
the waves of feeling?
~
Just wave them good-bye.
Although they may rock us now,
they are on their way elsewhere.
Can capital learn
the hard lessons of labor,
or must they labor in vain?
~
The question persists:
do we have the capital
to acknowledge labor’s gifts?
Is it possible
to glean anything of worth
from a fallow field?
~
The worth hiding in
fallow fields, is found within
the calm of resting soil.
When good works fall prey
to baser human actions,
how, again, to find our way?
~
It all begins when
we’re willing to see the truth
and change course from there.
When it’s night and storms
fill the sky, are poets born,
or tellers of horror tales?
~
From each according
to ability and need
of the audience!
When the last grain falls,
the ticking clock is silent,
how will your beat carry on?
~
Fortune favored me.
My children are poets, not
dead beats, so the song goes on
How many roads must
we go down before we find
our way back to each other?
~
Just keep on driving.
We may not meet on the way
but at the destination.
After spending time
With grandkids in museums,
Any insights or musings ?
~
Curiously, they
were more interested than I.
Evolution must exist.
How can we insure
with each passing year, we’ll grow
wiser, more compassionate?
~
We must be like gods:
hearts open, desires known,
from ourselves no secrets hid.
Like Henri Michaux,
poets should write what they know,
so what will be your subject?
~
Sassy sons who plague
their mothers with questions such
as this is what I know best.
Even though we know
nothing is permanent, what
is it that makes change so hard
~
Taking a new road
always seems to take more time
than the old, well traveled path.
When secrets are hid,
could it be best they stay so,
or must they all be revealed?
~
It’s no secret that
we wish complex questions such
as these had simple answers.
Why is it so hard
sometimes to be clear what is
wheat and what is chaff?
~
The tooth always knows.
The art lies in saving teeth
the shock of letting us know.
As days shorten and
weather cools, how long before
we miss the heat of summer?
~
When it grows cold and
we lose electricity,
you can bet we’ll miss the heat.
As the winds of change
ripple across the surface
of our lives, should we dive deep?
~
To dive or to leap-
questions pondered by all who
play in ever changing waves.
At what cost, writing?
And at what price is meaning
when sacrificed to profit?
~
Writers profit by
finding meaning and pleasure
in the words that come their way.