Wearing Time

The toothless cogs of stilled machines,
Mills rusted shut in eternal closings,
The silenced pens of poets
without dreams:

That void
filled with chaotic schemes that only time
can turn toward their true mirror.

Every venture
is born indentured, a slave
to the pendulum’s swing,

What is that bangle
buckled on your wrist?
You wear it well.

To Touch the Sun

Leaving the haven of dark corners,
stepping timidly from shadows
to travel treacherous paths
in search of sun beyond the tempest,

For this second all is still,
The sky, as yet is undecided,
Dark with frown, it wears a hint of smile.

The mountains, stoic,
have seen such storms before.
The lake, a picture of dichotomy,
Who knows how deep still waters run?

Answers are for those
who brave the journey,
one must walk in light to touch the sun.

A Cautionary Tale

Ten foot tall and so polite, (thank you, Lord, for that)
The mammoths could have raised one less-than-dainty foot
and turned their prey to bone meal and a spot of viscera,
the makings of a tasty cake, one might suppose.

Instead they waited patiently for their turn, which
when it came found all the water gone. Their carcasses
lined up as if still waiting for a drink. It could be a myth;
I’m not convinced that George Washington had wooden
teeth, but I concede the possibility. Be that as it may.

I have never heard suggested that our first president
should be reconstituted.  I wish they’d likewise
leave the sleeping mammoth alone. But no,
they’ve thawed his frozen frame and extracted marrow,
mixed it with some fat and bone, perhaps some bat wings.

The truth is little known just what is going on
but mad scientists want to clone the woolly thing,
maybe add a gene to make it perfect in their eyes.
‘Twould be a shame and pity if they succeed
only to have blind justice step up,

scales in hand,
to proclaim the gentle beast
………………..a bit less friendly this time.
It’s scary but I concede the possibility.