Category Archives: Uncategorized

Anxiety

I worked in the garden today, removing the troublesome weeds.
The apprehension of a thistle, dug deep with a trowel,
broad leaves and thorns that won’t concede.

I dug through the garden today, pulling up my anxiety.
The crabgrass and chickweed spread in the clover,
rooted deep with angst and unease.

I weeded the garden today, prying the nightshade free.
My concerns over nettle and henbit and dock
disquieted my plain revery.

I cleared out the garden today, the soil freshly turned to see
the divots and pockets where once were the nutsedge
now awaiting new flowers and seed.

Astigmatism

I take my glasses off, polish them in the tail of my shirt,
hoping to clear what confounds and conceals.
A bit more vision, a little less dirt
might give my field of view a broader appeal.

Yet, leaders’ actions are smudged – 
their intentions are keen.
Religion’s bright faces are blurred or unclean
and creation’s bright mornings revel unjudged.

The devilish details are hidden from view,
the rhyming and reason seem random and slant.
Perhaps my prescription is old, needs renewed;
I can’t glean the matter between Hume or Kant.

I polish the lenses, each hot breath I wipe,
viewing the world with horizons in fog.
The boundaries less of a contrast in stripes;
this poem, just maybe, a means to unclog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In kind

We were asked some time ago
to cover our ears and let it go.
As sounds of untruths filled the air
boasting promise (false), laid bare.
Asking us to ignore it all
to hear no evil was the call.

Then one day, we’re cautioned: wise
to keep our distance so no one dies,
to simply cover our mouths to spare.
We close salons and bars, daycare
so those at risk among us most
won’t pay excessive, deadly costs.

And whilst we’re dealt pandemic blows,
mankind’s poor character flaws disclose
an image in the mirror mulled.
Never spoken, but we’ve culled
an awful sinful, biased slant
that fills a cup we won’t decant.

And here we are today with this:
in basic calls we are remiss.
Simple facts to call out lies
and to hold account the ones who try.
To care enough to save the weak
and act on what our family speaks.

No politics that I can name
outweighs this simple, common claim:
mere decency should be our aim.

The wisdom of stick people

We make a step.

Then two. But never alike. There is so much space and planar geometry to consider.

Those drawn from points and lines, making conclusive statements from their biases in plain “right and wrong”

If x then y. Then straight ahead.

They are the ones inconsiderate of the spherical or the enveloping things about intervening axes and overlapped arcs.

Sometimes our way becomes brambled and thick with their branches.

It’s a crowd that crossed our path with felled reasoning, their limbs mangled in the present disagreements, All attempting to move forward.

We can go around it if we choose. We can scale the brush if we desire.

We may assist the ones blocking with compassion, convincing them to move another way.

Yet, the wisdom of stick people is to pile on, despite all admonishments, losing ourselves in the entanglements, rather than consider the spatial options.

We make a step, then two…

A Violette

This poem was partly inspired by the song “Arthur McBride”, a protest Irish folk song of sorts that describes a chance meeting during a walk. After listening, you may find yourself humming the tune as you read.

One morning while walking my big yellow dog,
strolling the sidewalk and whistling a song,
the sun creeping slow and the sound of a frog
moaning and croaking, forewarning.

Coming towards us, two men in red caps
and a little boy pulling a wagon in back
I nodded hello, with a smile and a snap.
The sunlight was waking and yawning.

Hello there, my good friend, spare us some time
to explain our day’s mission – the work it is prime.
Our leader needs your vote in this political clime.
The lib’rals are gathering and swarming.

He’ll keep us all great and help us to win.
He is the best president that ever has been.
He’s building a wall, and he’s scourging the sins.
We think he is righteous and charming.

But what has he done, I asked in reply.
He’s lied to the congress and voters alike.
He insults hero’s families and impeachment decries.
He’s neither so righteous nor charming.

He fancies himself a dictator of sorts,
thinks he’s above the law with contempt for the courts.
Others who govern enable this farce –
afraid to lose power, suborning.

Also, he’s ill-prepared to lead us through strife;
He doesn’t know science or healthcare, he swipes
At the laws we enact for our planet, our lives.
We should be outraged and swarming.

He’s not empathetic for his fellow men,
He worships the dollar, he wholly pretends.
My dog shows more care and concern (compassion)
And then the dog barked without warning.

The red-hatted men stood there scowling, their sprog
was contentedly sitting and petting the dog
(Who sat and enjoyed the attention he brought).
The sun it was higher and fawning.

You see that he’s happy and very content,
For the kindness that your boy has given to him.
He’s ever so loyal, a true life-long friend
and doesn’t annoy with his barking.

Let those who divide for political gain
adopt a philosophy that doesn’t give blame.
We need to avoid the one-upmanship game
The stakes are too high for this scorning.

Now fifteen weeks hence, I am here to recall
this chance encounter that we had – one and all,
the red-hatted men, their ward and my dog
stood on the corner mid-morning.

And now we can no long gather for chat.
The boy he succumbed to a virus, and that
has enveloped a world that was angry and fat.
Now we are all sad and in mourning.

While strolling this evening and walking my dog –
Alleyways quiet, no crowds there agog.
My canine looked back to the noise from a frog
moaning and croaking, forlornly.

April 2020

This is a time of blossoms.
Each day, a petal grows to hide the thorns.
The wind-kicked clouds cry onto the pavement
where people walked in groups
chattering just a few weeks ago.

The clatter and rumble of man’s progress replaced
as the thunder ricochets into the emptiness of night,
followed at dawn by singing birds
among our edifices
from their nests embedded in the steel and concrete.

Mountains breathe the clearing air in a respite
from our industriousness.

We mourn what we have lost,
both the temporary and the dear.

Yet as we cover our mouths in silence,
our eyes are open to see a blossoming world
giving so much in our absence.

Isolation

Once among a growing cluster
Can a flower bloom alone?

Will a single word not rhymed
still take on poetic tones?

Does a song without its chorus
soar in hearts, fill a home?

Can a single buzzing bee
pollinate without the swarm?

Will I write if no one listens
In our isolation?

The solitary bumblebee
seeks and finds the pollen source.

A melody alone can cause
a tear, a smile from lonely hearts.

While a single word won’t rhyme
another one will build a verse.

And single blossoms here and there
dot and beautify the earth.

And here, myself in solitude
I craft this poem without remorse.

The bells of truth

(Sung to the tune of The Bells of Rhymney, by The Byrds)
I believe that he’s guilty,
says the voice of Mitt Romney.
Is there hope for conviction?
Not with the witness restrictions.
Where is the transparency?
Cries the moderate constituency.
Democracy is lost and feigned,
shouts the spirit of John McCain.

Other senators fear it,
repercussions and bitter explicits
and other hateful endictments
from the one that the “christians” assented.
Romney’s faith not dissuaded
from the cause that his oath would not betray.
Lesser ones fear it.
Repercussions quench the spirit.

People, pray for justice,
and relief from this, we’re all disgusted.
Bells would ring, ring, ring
if our leaders would simply do the right thing.
We are troubled, our country is bleeding,
and tempers around us, they are seething.
And when will the truth be
given full weight for all to see?

Portamento

As if the sunrise welled and overflowed,
an inkling of light, then creation bestowed.
Anticipation moments pass
from intra-chordal throes,
at last to grounded melody in phrase.

Or let me express in other ways;
a passion builds in smaller plays.

First, the pedal points of tone suffice,
a basis for embracing life.
Like moon and stars and sunlight greet
the common ground beneath our feet.

Tunes of commonality composed
above this founding base suppose
synchronicity imbued,
and many intervals accrue.

Yet, with the suspense here to next
a lingered moment’s desired effect
mellifluous, and tasting sweet,
such to sweep you off your feet.

As memories are long and vast
our songs with portamento last.

A Decade of Poems

The milestone of a new year is upon us, and it also signals the beginning of a new decade.

To mark the occasion, I wanted to revisit some of the poems I’ve written here over the last ten years. I sought out poems that seemed to resonate (number of views) or were meaningful (due to events of the period).  Plus, who doesn’t love a good list.  I write here because it is an easy venue to share.

So, here goes… My top ten poems of the last 10 years.  I didn’t start regularly writing until 2011.

From 2011, Poet Biographies

From 2012, What to do when there are three heels in your loaf of bread

From 2013, the chnott and the sarborant

From 2014, Gratifying

From 2015, Sonnet for Longing

From 2016, Immersion

From 2017, Puzzled

From 2018, Maybe

From 2019, That’s me

I wish you all the best in 2020.  I hope you will return to taps and ratamacues to read and comment.  I appreciate all of my readers.

Happy New Year!