Is it not a truth

That wit is a mountain stream

While wisdom is a glacier?

~

Though large and solid,

wisdom isn’t cold and ice.

Like wit, it can feed and flow. 

If  you start to think

you’re enlightened, spend some time

with your parents. What say you?

~

Like most children, I

make concerted effort to

ridicule enlightenment!

Flying Amoeba!

Starlings, Weave, swirl, contract, stretch,

gyrate, dance? Why the Ballet?

~

Starlings know what we’ve

forgotten – that there’s

little joy without the dance.

 What is the sound of

one mind snapping and how will

we know if anyone cares?

 ~

 I heard it on the

 Nightly News, a resounding thud

 echoing through hollow minds.

Will all this talk of

trees encourage us to root

our bodies in the good earth?

~

By putting down roots

in this good earth, we’ll always 

have a home to come back to.

Anger stays the cold!

Does the tree burn enraged

against chill gloom of winter?

~

Perhaps the tree glows

in thanks for another chance

 after winter’s chill has passed.

Autumn tree aflame

with self consuming fire –

a stay against winter’s cold?

~

Perhaps warmth will come

 not from orange shawl but from

  browning blanket under foot.

With the falling leaves,

 the winds of autumn seem to

scatter poetic license.

~

It’s hunting season.

 I have my license so I’ll

just scare up a poem.

Tell me, aged Sage,

Do your words leap to the page,

or must you nail them down there?

~

Words, like this aged

sage, leap and sail, creep and wail,

but you can’t keep either down.

Tell me, my clever

son, how many poets does

it take to change a light bulb?

~

None,of course. Poets

may light the spark but change

must glow from within the bulb.

Does careful planning

 allow a joyful note to

over chime the constant din?

~

Consider that small

bird. He plans not;  neither does

he  measure. His joy  just rings.

Small bird, why do you

try to sing when the air is

so full of those cawing crows?

~

The song must be sung!

Like flowers bloom on coal tips

though none ever smell them there.

I found this fertile

pasture by stepping in dung.

Is there any better way?

~

I’ve heard the sages

of the ages say there is

no better way. Urg, I say.

My son, anger turned 

you toward poetry, but what

has caused you to linger there?

~

Verse may heal the wounds,

but creation surely breeds

in existential crisis.