One could say the world is square
or something equally bizarre,
and if metaphor meets perfection
the verse, none the worse
for shoddy license, might suffer
Even at Camelot
the jester was revered at court
for relating of both art and tort.
Witness to the evidence, one hopes
all crimes will be confessed in perfect tone
and stress, and read with flawless elocution.
There is some concern
for conviction but it is in the execution
that the poet’s blood is shed.
Of course it should be noted,
once the buzzing has abated,
that censorship is hated,
rumors of dissent are overstated,
and yes, it’s family rated.
The season swells and rises ’round me;
drab brown fields have greened with early wheat.
Grasshoppers with one easy leap land in summer,
It won’t be long before the bees will follow
and then the butterflies. O June,
you thrill me with your youthful exuberance;
rose petal wind, the tanager’s scarlet breast,
the joy of flight is all around us.
Lord, give me wings, if only for a moment;
let my psyche soar beyond the stratosphere.
If, like Icarus, my wings are wax, let it be.
Small price to pay for the gift of flying free.
I’ve walked that watery edge, Amy,
teetered on the ledge of understanding,
envisioned a Utopian paradise, but slipped
before I found it.
The endless piles of plastic,
residue of careless tourists
pushing and shoving at my mind
like waves on sand.
I’ll leave the glass to you, Amy,
shards and fragments of a sharper hue,
even the translucent turquoise, (Not all
tourists are infidels.)
I’ll take the grasses, the plumey
heads of swampy grasses nodding
their hello, downy cattails
bending in the wind.
My weedy, reedy friends
that teeter, always understanding
the uncertainty of me,
of where I’m going…
where I’ve been.
lit by a backwash of stars,
light on the leaf shine on us.
Let us live in the now
without forgetting spring
or fearing winter.
Burned by the will of the sun
over the meadow –
in a search for laughter
we wilted without rain.
Time and time again
we dream in excess,
a vortex of whim, willful –
unmindful of nature’s laws,
the equals of opposite reactions,
the threat of attrition,
the haste to dance
before the music is done.
We will not pass this way again.
This is not a dress rehearsal
and though we may stumble
we rise to our knees
a modicum wiser
as our motives become purer
until there is no motive,
simply a celebration
of the revelation
Time is on our side.
A magic flute, a silver note,
a robin on the wing,
everything is celebrating
summer and I
am one with them.
My eyes see only art:
the weed, the vine, the bloom,
the supple Maple tree,
Each is a maestro
in its proclivity to dance, or sing,
or merely be.
wan mortal that I am,
by their beauty, Today
I am at once the wing-ed bird
and the graceful tree.