Monday, September 18, 2017

I've learned to leave when the cool kids leave,
And not to show up
At places they don't go.

Now I'm not cool,
But there's a reason they are,
And we could all learn from that.

I remember a church potluck dinner.
I was standing in line
Right behind a woman who had already been through once.
She turned to show me her plate
And pointed to something that hadn't quite satisfied her delicate palate.
"Don't get any of this," she said,
And pointed with her fork to a broccoli slaw.
"It's bitter!" she said as she
Clinched her jaw in an unhappy grimace.

"I made that," I said,
And her eyes got big,
Her jaw unclenched and hung agape.
"I'm just kidding," I said,
"But I could've made it."

It's one thing to warn others of some deadly thing
That waits to bring a mortal fate,
But to criticize food at a church social,
Well, now that's just bad taste.

I don't like this raspberry pie,
And I'm not going to try another bite.
I tasted one like this at church before,
And I didn't like it then.
I was told that it was good,
And that I should like it.

But I don't,
And I won't eat it anymore.

I hope you like your bacon crisp
And all your pancakes flat.
And put too much syrup on them!
And after all of that,
Could we just go back to bed
And sleep and dream
And live in lala-land
Until such time as reality
Lines up with you and me?

I'm out early walking in the wind.
It sounds like waves rolling out
And rolling in over the tops of the trees.
It's quiet here after the storm.
The animals are safe and warm in their burrows and nests.
Nothing is moving about.

I open my heart to the mottled sky.
I accept the duality of all nature,
My goodness and evil
And that of my family and friends.
I stand quietly on this airish hill
Where my hair blows free,
And I freely give my love again.
Yet I survey the dale
Where I live and take back my love, as well.

And now I know. I see.
The wind has blown the stale old lonesome out of me,
But just as soon as it comes again,
It will blow a fresh new lonesome in.


Friday, September 15, 2017

By the time I rise,
The Morning Star is high.
She's painted a fresco,
Something she remembers.
She's dabbed the clouds with color
And the skies with things that made an impression
On her at some time in her youth.

She takes time to represent it fairly,
An accurate history.
The faces are the actual ones.
She remembers them so clearly,
And she saw it all from the beginning.
She's not confused
By who hit whom in the latter years of the war.
She knows who started it.

All other biographies might begin their story in the middle,
But not the frescoes of the Morning Star.
Blood still cries out from the rocks to her.
The heavens still resound
With the echoes of the injustices,
And the fairnesses,
That have ever been found to occur upon this earth.

But know that at this point in human history,
When you pick a side,
It may be based only on whom you think you saw throw the first punch.
And then again, you might be right,
But you might be very wrong.

But look to the frescoes.
Meditate on the ancientness of the Morning Star.
Make the world better wherever you are
By choosing to be uniquely you,
And loving those whom only you can love.

And when it's time for your countenance
To appear in the morning skies,
The Morning Star will smile as she paints you.
She will be sure to depict your good side.


Thursday, September 14, 2017

Two flies buzzed about while I bathed.
One got swatted,
The other, unscathed,
Continue to fly between ceiling and floor,
But was it steam from the bath,
Or something more forlorn
That made the remaining fly
So heavy and morose?
Its spiral only seemed to go downward.

I don't think flies get married,
But perhaps these two were quantumly entangled.
Some connections are Cosmic and Real like that,
Even if they are "unofficial," or "officially" labeled "bad."

But whatever matrimony the excepted nomenclature of the day
Might try to enforce as "normal" or "good,"
People and flies will feel what they will for whom they will,
Right in the face of peer pressure or
The hegemony of political correctness.