There is a kind of tired, That resting can't assuage, Not caused by sweat and labor, Nor a product of great age. Oft it creeps in slowly, Caused by labors of the mind, When truths compete as valid, But no resolution find. They grind against each other, Then life adds in some grit, Of reason, hope and longing, That block and warp the fit; Which erstwhile might be forming, Were the process left alone, To smooth the roughened edges, Like a knife against the hone. And form a polished surface, Where the two can both reside, Supporting one another, Standing… Read the rest
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Snake Oil – Thoughts on Temporal Hope
Where do you turn when hope seems lost?
Several years ago, a friend of mine shared his thoughts on this topic. Jim was probably one of the happiest and kindest men I had ever met. His whole life had been dedicated to the cheerful service of others, and he was beloved by a great many as a result. Unfortunately, tragedy doesn’t seem to respect these kinds of distinctions, and struck Jim and his family rather abruptly and harshly. Several months before the exchange around which this article is based, Jim and his wife Helen had traveled to Europe for the … Read the rest
Snake Oil
My patented and perfect cure Is worth it's weight in gold Composed of extracts much more pure Than ever have been sold. The larva from a tse-tse fly In tincture with exotic salt Applied just right to tired eye Will heal a ghastly fault. Pure essence of a tiger's blood To strengthen timid hearts And extract of a cobra's bile Rebuild your weaker parts. Fix your ills in just one dose Or ten, or maybe more A dose a day for just six weeks Will heal an ulcered sore. Taken for six hundred days While drifting out at sea Will… Read the rest
Treasure
Guarded and gathered with zealous pride, More treasured than the sultan's horde, Kisses, caresses and hours at your side, Priceless, treasured, craved and adored. Warm with promise of hope and renewal, Spring's rays touch my up-turned face, But absent your eye the sun takes a fall, Shining icy and cold into desolate space. Unworthy I ponder what magic was played, To win your companionship, love and trust, A debtor in truth for a future now saved, You give purpose to rise from the dust.
Building Memories
It's not about precision Or doing it correctly Efficiency would call it waste When done this indirectly The final product may be flawed And lack a finer finish The craftsmanship could use some work Have defects or a blemish It could be done much quicker If I did it all myself It'd last a little longer Or look better on the shelf What lesson would that teach them What mem'ries would they find If I took it from their hands And kept it just for mine
Dictionary Games
I'm bored in a meeting - so lets start a game To spark conversation, disrupt and cast blame. Search for contention in turning a phrase Impute hidden meaning to a word someone says. No matter the purpose, or just what they meant Argue at length implied messages sent. Worked up to a lather, sparks hot in the air Now sit back and watch wile the others despair.
Lighthouse
I don't think that I'd like to live there, Too many steps to the top. No corners to park naughty children, A light that will never stop. Fog that rolls in calls for non-pointed horns, Warns sailors but wakes lookers on. Sea-spray and salt coat both precious and poor, corroding and rusting 'till gone. A lighthouse in name, it's massive and tall, Concrete and steel aren't light. Not fit for a family to call it a home, A house where I'll not spend a night.
Daylight
No switch to flip nor wire nor plug Rays of brightest white Like clockworks made precise and sure each day o'rcomes the night
Quiet
Inventions to enrich our lives, fill every corner, nook, and crack, Screens that glow and flash and shift, compute, process, display and track. Hush the screaming lights and sounds, seek refuge in some quiet place, Loose the chains that tie the mind, Take on a calmer slower pace.
Not Under a Rhyming Star
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.