Small Annoyances
Cats
must think that
newspapers,
magazines
and IPads
are hazardous
to
our
health.
In themselves,
cats
are never annoying.
They.
Just.
Do.
What.
They.
Do.
Cats don’t care.
However,
whatever the question,
cats
are always the answer.
If you like art forms, or care about living things, this is the blog for you. Poetry, essays, watercolor, acrylics, films, novels, music...pick your pleasure. I'll post my own work, and anyone else's which catch my eye. I'll recommend books and films, some obscure, others not. So, as Walt, my fellow Living Poet on the poetic asides section of writersdigest.com, says, "come little goldfish in my pond, interact, don't be koi."
Small Annoyances
Cats
must think that
newspapers,
magazines
and IPads
are hazardous
to
our
health.
In themselves,
cats
are never annoying.
They.
Just.
Do.
What.
They.
Do.
Cats don’t care.
However,
whatever the question,
cats
are always the answer.
Rain
Overnight rain falls
with its own unique sound,
blankets the dryness
of yesterday’s ground.
I see and smell it
more than hear,
childhood memories receptive,
some of them messy,
a few so beautiful,
knowing that beauty is deceptive,
even the strange,
not-quite-morning light,
which God has arranged
to begin my day.
Common Sense
After a somewhat lengthy journey,
spanning my entire life, actually,
listening only to the sound of my feet,
I think I have arrived at wisdom.
Tomorrow morning, perhaps
I’ll arrive at it again.
It’s not the traveling as such,
nor the destination too much,
at this age I seldom care
other than memories I share.
Lemonade days, watermelon nights,
backyard cookouts, seaside delights.
Fireworks explosions, root beer floats,
Sun tan lotions, no need for coats.
Traveling the nation, frilly light tops,
happy staycation, beach time flip-flops.
Prizes from fairs, carnivals after dark.
seasonal pears, Shakespeare in the park.
Thundering skies, sandal-free feet,
bright fireflies, ice cream so sweet.
Hopscotch skip, travel in time,
family road trip, poem some new rhyme.
Swim in a pool, bonfires with friends,
try to stay cool, the heat never ends.
Relax on a swing, just yakking and lazing,
to America we sing, nighttime stargazing.
Mad games of croquet, telling white lies,
oh how we did play, my how time flies.
Who Can Tell
Our life is not a dream,
there’s no magic in our art,
though to others it might so seem,
we are simply playing our part.
It’s no accident, no stroke of luck,
we do not bumble,
seldom stumble,
satisfied each day
with what life has to say.
Even if our life were a dream,
it would need to be embraced,
but no golden palace, no silver hill,
no white elephant need be chased.
Our life, like our love,
though not a dream, remains
unfathomable, indescribable,
it simply sits there, glowing.
We cannot forever keep it,
so for a short while, we
bathe in its perplexity,
revel in its complexity,
be content in never knowing.
Speak softly, carry
a big agenda:
peace, calm, empathy
and undemanding love.
Make me smile and
laugh until it hurts.
Go ahead, I dare you.
Be a little wild,
use your imagination,
avoid snark to snark combat.
I want to be
seduced by beauty,
have it look a lot
like truth.
Not too quickly,
not all at once.
I want to let it
come at me slowly,
give me time
to get a feel for it,
before I bid it flow
in my material world.
As with my
experience of Grace,
I want to be primed,
relaxed in readiness,
wishing more for wisdom
than for intelligence,
praying more for peace
than for just a good time.
He knew it was best to
follow his gut when it
came to his scribblings,
to let his stomach tell him
the truth, when his desire for
approval tried to
lead him astray.
He knew that every poem
was born from a need,
each one a mystery,
yet all of them on a mission,
a fight, or flight,
to reveal his life.
He knew it best to
follow his gut, but
those damn buttons,
send and post and share,
so easy to push, so easy to
lead him into temptation,
when he knew it best to
follow his gut, to
attend to his heart.
I will not sit idly by,
allowing all those hurtful words,
the weak should not be made to cry,
if they are harmed, then we cross swords.
I will not sit idly by,
by my quiet allowing bullies to berate,
to abuse the weak, as they often try,
and when they do, I won’t hesitate.
I will not sit idly by,
hearing hebe, spic, nigger, dyke,
faggot, cripple, crybaby cry,
rag head, slope, slut and kyke.
I will not sit idly by,
or I would be the same as them,
I will not allow these words to fly
without response, never again.
From “May”, by Mary Oliver
“As a poem or a prayer can also make.”
Peace
A simple piece is best, as
only a
poem,
a letter or
perhaps a
prayer
might bring, if it can,
contributing also
to the peace we make.
Here Shall My Heart Find its Haven of Calm
Dear Friend,
I find myself thinking
of you, me, us.
It’s a lovely, gentle thought,
leaves me with a smile.
I don’t always expect nuance from myself,
yet once in a while, it just pops out,
most often in a poem,
frequently inspired by another person,
their writing or speaking.
Someone like you.
Sometimes, when there is a strong breeze,
it blows right through the hole in me
that was formed by my own
unmet dreams and expectations.
Not so when I think of you.
As busy as I know you to be,
I’ll only take a minute,
just to tell you to a certainty
that the world I know is
better because you’re in it.