New Creation

Speeding toward Earth with a vengeance untold
The hollow fire and ice in premonitions unfold
Where in the galaxy and when, be so bold
To draw power and profit as centuries unmold.
The stories of collapse and calamity wherein
Humankind fails to recognize its limitations therein
Where all people are fed and clothed, safe from sin
Of the faceless, nameless hordes’ earsplitting din.
The desire to take what cannot be theirs today or ever
If we are to survive and come to balance forever
It must be told, it must be known now or never
For the ball comes when it will, we cannot pull the lever.
Let there be fear in our hearts, seek out salvation
And two moons will be the result of the new creation.

Patchwork

A partial blue sky is better
Than no blue sky at all
We can see the dark clouds of snow
And the white clouds of cotton
Hanging peaceably there
And its little more than an inconvenience
To have a patchwork in the sky
For sometimes the sun is covered
And sometimes not.

Above

Those we’ve loved, passing through the screen
Take our hearts along to keep them warm
Our memories serve well to show where they’ve been
Our tongues well healed to keep them from harm.
And yet, in all this, we shed our tears
Because our lives are somehow less full
Or fruitful with them gone, in spite of the years,
And so we review photos, track dates, feel the pull
To draw our loved ones closer until
Our own time comes to say our goodbyes
Then we wonder if we shall be remembered still
And we go our own way and softly close our eyes
Ready to move on, watching each beloved one
From a balcony up above in the Central Sun.

From Loss to Love

How profound the beauty in the human soul
Where daybreak brings the bright blue sky
And all tremulous worries fade in that moment
Because the light signals rebirth
And all of heaven starts anew
Gifts are granted to the open-hearted
As well to the open-minded who spring aloft
And all who rise with the dew
Have instilled harmony in the deepest measure
Where light resolves each worry, each challenge,
Dissolving them away as they rise closer,
Closer to the Source of all good, all blessings
Where there can be no conflict, no anger
But resilience to take on the shifts
From want to plenty, from sadness to joy,
From doubt to possibility and from loss to love.

Naked Tree

A naked tree is ugly
In its segmented limbs
Its towering branches that have no order
Just random wandering here and there
With no system but when the sun struck
And the seedling’s veins were drawn
Toward the light, compelled to follow
Until the burden of old wood was too heavy
To traverse the sky with the sun anymore
And so now it freezes with the season
Becoming an eyesore without its green dress.

Yes, We Do!

Gilded words to make even the most troubled times
Seem like team sports in which we gather
Our mightiest grit and identity together
And line up our defenses, our sheer force of will
Because we can do this if we hold our line
Casting off the plagues of hunger, war, disease
All of which form in the small mind, not ours,
But WE can fend them off, if we work together,
Remember who we are, where we came from,
A vision of the Founding Fathers, thirteen for luck,
Ingenuity, vision, persistence, hope above all,
Pulling each other up by the bootstraps
We can, we will, we are, and we do. Yes, we do!

The Path of Life

In the valley, youth plays in a field of grass
Scarcely noticing that there is somewhere to go
Mimicking the songbirds as they perch on a twig,
Watching the ants as they drudge away the day.
The babe learns soon enough to stand
And so he does, seeing o’er the tops of windblown hay
To something that catches his eye in a blink.
And there, the first inclination to step out is born.
Perhaps seeming, at first, like stalking his prey:
A volley to the left, then a charge to the right,
As if this vision that provokes him so may get away,
He wanders, he wonders, until a clear vision erupts.
With age and agility, determination sets in
And he has a clear notion to get himself from here to there
And his Path of Life becomes defined, his heart resolute,
For the place of dreams, his goals, his desires is clear.
Now that the path is laid out, he can decorate it
With flowers of dance, with shrubs of exploration,
With rainbows of love and pets of joy,
Companions on this, his life, where he reigns free.
Finally, the path ascends upward into the mountain
Where doubt, pessimism, fear and advancing age
Creep into his mind and must be fought off, sword in hand.
Here he knows that the best, he has accomplished.
But sooner or later, the greatest challenge of his life
Will be upon him and he struggles up the mountainside
Through thickets of brush and the chill of snow,
For no one guides him here: at the end of the path is the Self.

Terrarium

Tiny topiary, a centerpiece to the still life
Held in biostasis inside a dome of glass
Where rain comes to the plants whose leaves
Lift up in silent prayer to the sun
As it cascades through windows and enclosures
Urging growth and green brilliance displayed
In the center of my dining table a vision
Of preservation, life and simplicity.

Before His Lamp of Oil

One must take care, it seems to me,
What book of poems to select
To bend one’s style and awaken the muse
That sleeps within
For the energy beckons to write
Relieving that need to stay awake
Through the night as the muse
Screeches at the top of her lungs
To gain my immediate attention.
But sometimes one has little to say
And wants another perspective
Another view, a breath of fresh air,
As it were, to let the light in
From beneath the window shade
And then one must read with feeling
The words struggled over by another poet
In the wee hours before his lamp of oil.

Barnes & Nobles

Books, all row after row, standing at attention
Tall, short, alphabetized by author
Some have gotten tired and take on a lean
While the rest whisper warnings to the others
Not to do likewise or it will go bad for them.
Colors of every kind smatter the wall inside each case
Six shelves high, with only the topmost books gathering dust
From a distance each row looks like a jagged-toothed smile
And all we can say about them is that they’re books,
Rather than cookbooks or etiquette, philosophy or medicine.
But they make fine wallpaper by which to stimulate
The minds and imaginations of those who sit and watch
Wondering what reader might notice which book
And what it would take to take it home.

The Hint

Just the hint of dawn and sunrise
Gives hope to the spirit that resides
Within the breast, the mind related
To all the Universe in its fine scope.
Fire at the tip of the tongue spreads
The words that lift us out of the belated
Moment where sudden impulse of hope
Gives rise to each new day. We jump out of our beds
And exercise our rights to see the world
As it might be with ancient symbols unfurled
For all to know and understand at last
So that we can hold hands and stand
Shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm.
We no longer pay for the sins of the past
But grant freedom to all in every land
Rejoicing in a new time when none come to harm.