The rhyming star is a fickle friend, With mystic rays that shimmer and bend, Around and past the would be poet, With fullest heart though none may know it. Visions of beauty and scenes in his mind, Are trapped without outlet and won't be defined, 'Till lamely he finds a flavorless phrase, Lost in a labyrinthian linguistic maze. "I was not born under a rhyming star", He howls in despair to the silence afar, An echo returns with taunting and spite, So he sets down his pen and calls it a night.
Way back in the dark ages when I was single and in college, I seriously contemplated spending the time and money required to get my private pilots’ license. I even went so far as to get a few hours behind the controls of a Cessna 182. It was enough to convince me I would love it and that I couldn’t afford to maintain it as a hobby if I was ever going to have a family. I gave up my quest before my first “solo” flight. I was disappointed, but accepted my fate with magnanimity; knowing that my first solo … Read the rest
The truth will set you free they say, Give you strength and show the way. Help you stand when threats come strong, Make clear the route to carry on. Sometimes it's true that truth is kind, Healing hands and heart and mind. But all too oft it carries weight, Truths that grind, and crush, and grate. A knowledge of a harsher sort, Breaks through to light, a sharp retort. The darkened hearts that plot and plan, To hurt, oppress, and exploit man. Patterns followed o'er again, Truth and right now labeled sin. Done before, the outcome's clear, But boldly on,… Read the rest
While much of the poetry that I write is deeply personal, this one stems from an experience I had helping a friend and colleague through the collapse and beginnings of reconstructing his marriage.
Twenty years he towed the line, In the lead or just behind, Purpose bent to meet his task, Ever solid, firm, steadfast. Many nights would find him still, At his work for hours 'till, Exhaustion bid him pause a while, Then homeward trudge without a smile. Daybreak bids him e'er again, Drawn as moth to candle's flame, Weary eyes in a care-worn face, Search for meaning in… Read the rest
Large even from an airplane window seen, sixty miles away. Built to send people where nobody's been, the vacuum of space. Buses could park on the stripes of the flag, if it laid down. A symbol of pride, a nation's great brag, look what we did. Here they built monsters of metal and flame, they tore at the air. Hyperbole claimed we would conquer and tame, the vastness of space. Pushing man and machine to limits then past, They risked all to explore. Lionized pilots who flew fearless and fast, some died on the way. The men are gone -… Read the rest
Countless small sparks in a maze of maneuver Like flickering flames buried deep in the dark Shimmering, shifting, and boiling below Less venomous than fire ants I've known; At least from a distance. Much prettier too; From a distance.
We must be warned that coffee's hot, that smoking hurts the lung. Knives are sharp and spoons are not, and sunscreen blocks the sun. We must not eat the non-food pack, that freshens packaged foods. Know calories might make us fat, and sleep might make us drool. Labels warn that water's wet, and bullets might go bang. Signs to warn of dangers met, adorn each mundane thing. We used to use our eyes and think, to see, assess, then act. Replaced with warnings bold in ink, a talisman of words and fact.
A million years of sand and rain made me who I am Built up, compressed, washed clean and worn down. Rusty red, sandy blond, and streaked with black. I defy the elements openly as an acrobat would For Newton pulls heavy on my ancient spine. Yet I arch high overhead triumphant and grand Shade from a withering sun for strangers below.
The super secret squirrels convened Their meeting in the vault Each day at noon they gathered there Discussing who knows what The watchers all looked in from out As blind and dumb and deaf As though they had no mouth or ears To use for baited breath Whispers swirled from left to right Then back around again Tales of conquests in the works Cabals of greed and sin Murmurings of secret tech Sensors, planes, and tools Laser guns and mind control Oh man...… Read the rest
Almost endless years of school Countless hours of study Promotions moving ever up An awful sense of duty To be the expert and make change A constant goal since youth Use of hands and head at once Connecting truth with truth Explore and build to meet demand Reflect on what's been made More to know you've done it right Than strictly to get paid A phantom of some lingering dream Haunting daily chores Wants unmet in truthful life Like salt in open sores No new ideas are his today Great works he builds no more He simply gathers and compiles… Read the rest