What must it be to be a bee?
the flower mused.
To flit around and only take, producing nothing worthwhile.
That’s no way to be.
What a blossoming tragedy,
the bee surmised.
To explode with radiance, just to wither and become nothing.
That’s no way for life to unfold.
What a consuming godsend,
the man presumed.
To live without care, creation’s beauty and sweetness all mine.
That’s the essence of me.
I give an offering
so I won’t give a damn.
I don’t give a damn
so I can give freely.
I give freely
so I can give credit to God.
I give credit to God
so I don’t give a false impression.
I don’t give a false impression
so I can give a little.
I give a little
so I can give it my all.
I give it my all
so I can give up.
I give up
so I can give an offering.
A Wake for a Dream
I had a dream die today…
no, it was murdered.
A tragic carnage no one else gave their thoughts and prayers for.
To them it was merely a specter, or less.
Dreams are so frail,
unable to assert themselves,
thin, diaphanous waifs needing nourishment, tending.
I thought I could shelter it until it matured.
Then along came that butcher, that assassin
armed with a stray bullet.
Never knowing the dream was even alive,
she killed it with malicious indifference.
Her incidental aim was my heart.
Now I sit alone bleeding,
screaming into the darkness that birthed this fantasy,
punching the void.
Who do I hate more: the giver or the taker?
Qoheleth and Job, you would not mock me,
I have no tomorrow anymore.
God, where is the resurrection of the innocent?
Here is the dawn upon the grave.
I think, what now?
What will be?
What can be?
And I lay that fallen dream to rest.
Old is the new old.
Once upon a time gray crowns were golden,
every wrinkle was earned wisdom,
fading eyes were clear vision,
slow steps were sure,
and you weren’t expected to hear as much as to be listened to.
You fossil, put out in the pasture to be buried,
you have no treasure now.
Retire your tired ways.
Who needs your nuggets in a world where pyrite is currency?
Nobody wants to visit sequoias when the wild flowers are in bloom,
forgetting it takes the fruit and seeds from a previous generation to generate life.
New is the new old.
The Ironic Man
Tragically, I grew old tragically,
shriveled as I sniveled, disheveled,
hunched with the weight of all nothingness,
confounded by the confines of scientifically certified luck,
unable to paddle against the torrents tormenting me.
My wand-wielding god is as spellbound as the poetic mute,
his word silenced by the silence,
vacated in the vacuum.
He has left my peacock’s feathers faded and molted by my molten bedrock
to the heights of heaven
where time is as unwrinkled as my mind.
God Must Be Mad
God must be mad,
brandishing a sword that glistens with my veins.
I find myself daily weakly trying to slip between the hailstones,
dodging lightning bolts,
fretting over the threat of falling stars,
stubbing my toes and cussing in the darkness
as friends and enemies alike laugh at my predicament .
God must be mad,
brandishing the whips that glisten with his veins.
I find myself weekly weakly trying to grip his proxy hell storm:
enduring lightning bolts,
letting the wicked slip right through his hands,
bleeding lavishly and crying out in the darkness
as friends and enemies alike laugh at his predicament.
God must be mad,
brandishing the crown that glistens in vain.
I find myself always weakly trying to quip the Hail Mary,
conducting lightning bolts,
abetting the grace of resurrection,
giving dreadfully and glimmering in the darkness
as friends and enemies alike laugh at their predicament.
No Time for Transcendence
Tick, tock, screams the clock,
“There is no muse here.”
Tick, tock, it will not stop,
There is no poetry here.
Tick, tock, falls like a rock,
There is no rhythm here.
Tick, tock, why do you mock?
There are no lyrics here.
Tick, tock, the manic squawks,
There are no ballads here.
Tick, tock, creation’s gridlock,
There are no more verses here…