Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Will and I have been friends for 75% of our lives. He recently made me smile with this:
Dan the Living Poet
in my Dreams
I dreamt you were reciting a poem at a pot luck dinner party for parents of high school soccer players, to commemorate the beginning of soccer season. In the middle of the poem you sat down at the piano and began singing and playing the piano, first to Barb about how she touched your heart and then to everyone about how we all had the ability to reach out and touch each other's hearts, and if we did what a beautiful world this would be. Your voice was beautiful and your piano playing surprisingly good since I didn't know you played piano. The whole performance transcended the event. It was so wonderfully out of place. I was quite impressed.
Just wanted you to know.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Nothing much happened on that day,
that time when I broke my toe.
Oh, newly named babies were born somewhere, far away,
and many more unnamed people died in distant lands.
Some remarkable events occurred, so they say,
there might even have been a monsoon, a haboob, a fire,
but no matter to me, you see, as in bed I lay,
no matter to me, other peoples' joy or woe.
All that mattered was my pain that day.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
Let us speak again of the mere haiku,
always three lines, five-seven-five,
present tense mandated, minimalist view.
An unrhymed slice of life,
perhaps a pivotal point of view
between lines two and three, with epiphany.
Some think any hybrid form will do,
others say a focus on nature must thrive,
but if one uses humor, it becomes senryu.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Like in a Bob Dylan song,
one can force a little rhyme.
If one thinks that’s just too strong,
too jarring to one’s senses,
in the manner of Mr. Armstrong,
one might scat a Louis lyric,
perhaps a harmonica to play along,
madly prepping for some prime time.
Or maybe it’s just wrong.
new rhyme scheme = abacadaba
He was always told to be happy as a twig,
but he wanted to branch out,
see how tall he could be, how big,
with dreams of becoming a Christmas centerpiece,
or maybe just a leg of a Marconi rig,
So he sunk his roots, deep in the earth,
looked for food, for water, down deep he’d dig,
for he lived in Australia, surrounded by drought,
but eventually became a Botany Bay Fig.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Sometimes I can’t believe
just how much belief I own.
Even when I grieve,
it’s from the very core of me.
Whatever I might achieve,
I’ll always know the source of it,
and before this earth I leave,
when I’m by myself, alone,
it’s from belief I’ll be relieved.