When moonlight shimmers
on the pond below, do the
fish dance fast or slow?
~
When fish dance, the pace
is set, not by the moonlight,
but rather by deeper chords.
When moonlight shimmers
on the pond below, do the
fish dance fast or slow?
~
When fish dance, the pace
is set, not by the moonlight,
but rather by deeper chords.
If a verse is born
in a troubled mind, without
a willing scribe, does it die?
~
Whether the mind is
troubled or not, an unshared
verse shrivels and dies.
If even little
engines can, why is it that
we didn’t think we could?
~
Engaging family
in a year long poetic
chat surely tops any list!
If stormy weather
is as inevitable
as warm sun rising, what then?
~
Life, so full of storms
and sun, goes on whether we
applaud or groan.
As you take a look
with a poet’s eyes, what do
you see for the year ahead?
~
Red skies in morning
and more red skies at night to
warn and delight us all year.
For one year we’ve chopped
poetic wood and carried
rhythmic water – why stop now?
~
Enlightenment may
come and enlightenment may
go, but our words will still flow.
We wrote the year ’round
And found, during our journey,
Many thoughts to bend our pen.
~
Shall we now extend
this unlikely writing trek?
Another round of mondo zen?
What shall it profit
poets if they never turn
one and keep writing?
~
Beyond the profit
of a published masterpiece,
honorable exercise.
When the time arrives,
how will we know whether,
in its fullness, it has come?
~
The fullness of time?
Perhaps it can only be
known in retrospect.
After almost one
year of mondo zen, when might
enlightenment come ?
~
Like turning seasons
and rising and setting suns,
enlightenment arises.
How does one resolve
The God of boundless mercy
With the plague of the firstborn?
~
As one firstborn to
another, let me just say,
“Mystery abounds.”
If you were looking
for an antidote to hate
where would you begin?
~
Prevention beats cure.
Vaccinate your heart against
politics and religion.
As the leaves begin
to change, might we imitate
nature and change too?
~
Is this our time to
wither upon the stem and
fall into winter’s embrace?
And when we have found
that which we have been seeking,
would we, then, be satisfied?
~
On this temporal
plane, temporarily is
the name of the game.
What must we do to
open ourselves to beauty,
truth and compassion?
~
Look upon the world
with clear eyes, open minds,
and hearts unhardened by fear.
Is it possible
that there is more than one way
to reach our destination?
~
Not if you are a
card-carrying member of
the infamous Tea Party.
How many roads must
a man walk down before he
lets a woman point the way?
~
It’s not the letting!
It’s about the choice to heed
ubiquitous directions!
When creative juice
evaporates in the sun,
who can rehydrate the pen?
~
Creative juices
evaporate when not used,
so pick up that pen and write.
Preemptive stitches –
wouldn’t they be far better
than preemptive strikes?
~
I have often thought
prepaid consequences would
encourage better choices.
Is it high magic
when people perceive the light
even in darkest hours?
~
Those who see the light
in the darkest hours are
true magicians of the soul.
What’s the best response
to shallowness of thinking
and coldness of heart?
~
Perhaps it’s better
to wade in deeper water
and stroll along warmer paths.
When our hearts shatter
Into shards of grief and loss,
how can we mend the tatters?
~
To mend our shattered
hearts we must be given love
enough and unhurried time.
When we’ve prepared for
hurricanes that don’t hit, why
is there some disappointment?
~
Do we, secretly,
long to shout defiant rage
into some almighty’s face?
When sorrow’s sodden
wrap envelopes soggy souls,
What rekindled their fire?
~
Knowing that they’ll be
given warmth and love and not
be hung out to dry.
When we know taking
our time matters, why do we
race against the clock?
~
The true trick lies in
taking time for what matters
and using that time wisely.
When furious winds
fly havoc ’round our spirits,
Who picks up the scattered wrack?
~
Picking up always
seems to fall to those lucky
enough to survive and care.
Now that October
has burst upon the scene,
who’s changing the props?
~
“All the world’s a stage,
the people merely players”…
Props and poems? Thalia!
I mean, lemons
are fine and all, but really!
When will enough be enough?
~
Endless supply of lemons,
prospect of perpetual
lemonade – life’s full bounty
What makes it so hard
to look beneath the hard ground
of anger and see the fear?
~
For many, anger
is a well worn shoe, but fear
too terrifying to behold.
What else can we do
with life’s bushel of lemons
besides making lemonade?
~
What we shouldn’t do
is swallow them whole or hurl
them at passersby.