Change trains in Brussels:

an hour hardly seems time

for great poetry to sprout.

~

May small brussel sprouts

of poetry nourish you

 as you journey on.

When did outright lies

come to be preferred over

basic human rights?

~

Trump’s America:

Where the only human right

is to lie despite the cost.

In old Amsterdam

there’s a quality of light

that defies explanation

~

Appreciation

without explanation can

result in a deep delight.

Defending what is

indefensible won’t make

America great again.

~

Restoring greatness:

exercise for foolish men

who perceive some fall from grace.

Still Paris morning

punctuated by pigeon,

Parisians still slumber.

~

Taking time to eat,

taking time to rest? Foreign

ideas abound.

Whispers of wonder

accompany my driving.

Bet you’re not surprised.

~

Unlikely whispers

were what you heard while driving.

Could you use a hearing test?

Wandering the Louvre,

wondering where people are;

Ahh! Queued for Mona Lisa!

~

“Are you a daft prick?”,

he exclaimed in clear disdain,

“Man, It’s just a bloody wall!”

~

What is it about

pricks, disdain, and walls? Could they

be a package deal?

My phone reports storms

Four thousand miles away;

“Seek shelter at once!”

~

You’ll have lots of time

to reminisce over this

extraordinary near miss!

Though separated

by an ocean, we connect

by technology.

~

And mostly that works

despite glitches and delay;

there is no perfect system.

Unrestrained passions

thwarted by circumstances

yield uncontained strife.

~

There’s no vacation

from the drama of humans

no matter how far you go.

You’re up in the air,

flying over deep waters

as I sit grounded at home.

~

Even great poets

struggle with rhythm and rhyme

at thirty-nine thousand feet.

May your travels bring

a hearty restoration

of body and soul.

~

And May those who stay

keep the home fires burning;

the hearth, warm and welcoming.

It’s a marathon

I guess, since I’ve been sprinting

for days sans a finish line.

~

The light slowly dawns –

 when we cross the finish line

life’s marathon is over.

Like everyone else,

poets sometimes drop the ball

when juggling so many.

~

At least falling balls,

dropped by these errant poets,

do less damage than chainsaws.

Who could really care

at which end their candle’s lit

when it’s in a blast furnace?

~

We prove our mettle

and afterwards our light is

revealed to the world.

On a perfect day

such as this, sunny but not

too hot, we beam too.

~

These rough-hewn sunbeams

drag a reluctant smile

even from craggy faces.

Some won’t understand;

often labor must be done

to prepare a place for play.

~

Love’s labor is not

lost when preparing a place

for self or others to play.

They say what’s past is

past, but those who keep dragging

it into now disagree.

~

Is it irony

or folly that this undead past

somehow teaches them nothing?

A ceremony

can be a thing of beauty…

or a purgatory stay.

~

Whether we’re lifted

up or buried under makes

all the difference.

Can we become great

again by hate filled hook or

self aggrandizing  crook?

~

Regaining greatness

begins by remembering

that greatness is borne of love.

Trauma and drama

crowd out creativity-

what’s a poor poet to do?

~

When the heat dies down,

the poet reignites his

fire and begins to write.

Not a day goes by,

 it seems, without May weeping.

Why all these histrionics?

~

Perhaps, like me, she’s

been holding, subjected to

lachrymatory Muzak!

June is knocking on

May’s door, telling her to stop

her torrent of tears and leave.

~

Let us all just hope

May refrains from telling June

her tales of woe as she leaves.

Being short of breath

and, shorter still, of temper,

conversation is unwise.

~

So we take up our

pens and mondo converse. Take

heart; it could be worse.

We got another

to be continued notice

from the rain filled clouds on high.

~

Again, the Monsoon

moves from the tropics, northward,

into this, once temperate, land.

A joy filled morning

on this Graduation day!

Now to unwind and relax.

~

Let’s take a moment

and soak in happiness shared,

 achievement celebrated.

Your son is about

to graduate. Can the same

thing be said for you?

~

This graduation

is, yet another, etching

upon this life’s meter stick.