On Pause

It feels like Spring, they say.
I think of all the changes
that portends.

I have learned
to love the wind, its nip,
even its chilling bite.

I think of the crocus
waiting to bloom, of the tulips
dormant in the ground,

The taste of Spring onions
and fresh salad greens
without warnings,

Strawberries
that make my red lips
redder still*

I am not immune
to the thrill of Spring,
to the joy of green,

but then,
from the corner of my eye,
I spot a snowflake

making its solo flight
from heaven, and I’m thinking
I’m loving this moment,

this once-
in-a-lifetime moment
that I’m living in.

 

*Quoted from Barefoot Boy/John Greenleaf Whittier

What Is AMP? (Yes, I know that, But…)

Today when I made my daily post, it did not appear in reader.  I made another post
and still it did not appear. Even worse, on the dashboard url, it appeared with AMP beside the title.
What is AMP?

Look it up. (Google it)

Here’s how I see it, if we refuse it, our sites will intentionally become less accessible to all media.

If we accept it, it is one more way for the space we pay for to be turned to ad profit for the server and for Google to manipulate what we see on the Internet. The only reason I pay for space that would otherwise be free is to keep ads off my pages, to avoid the manipulation of the people who come to this space for the sole purpose of reading poetry, and, yes, for myself to avoid feeling manipulated.

Poetry is not an ‘on-the-run’ avocation. It is meant to be savored in the spaciousness of uncluttered space. It is a freeing of mind, body and soul from the turmoil of a dog eat dog world. It was never meant to be accompanied by the hustle of ‘backstreet Madison Ave’.

So while the claim is that AMP exists to speed things up, I am told the system doesn’t really work well and that it will take 6 days for the post to show on the home page. I’m not sure what that means. The post I made today showed on my home page, but not in reader. I just kept making posts until one did show in reader.

What I would really like is for a WordPress Tech to publicly explain to me the full ramification of AMP on WordPress, so I, who pays for this space, can make an educated decision. I don’t want to find out about new tinkering on my site by having a post not show.

Thanks for the platform provided but please, learn to respect your bloggers and their space a bit more and please, please, when you tinker with something that affects my site, send me an email, make a post on my blog…do something beside add one more article to the quagmire of how-to articles one must navigate to figure out why their space is not doing what it should..

The Moments, Not the Days

Before we knew
about global warming
and mercury poisoning;
Before we knew that man
with his big boots
could change the nature
of Nature,

There was still plenty
to keep us awake at night.
Was there a year, ever,
without crisis, without
hand-wringing concern? If so,
when?  I couldn’t find one.
Not one, so I quit looking.

Sometimes the forest
is so thick you can’t see the trees.
Yes  that’s what I meant to say.
The beauty lies in the moments,
not in the days. If it’s peace
you’re hoping to find,
look first inside.

The Moments, Not the Days

Before we knew
about global warming
and mercury poisoning;
Before we knew that man
with his big boots
could change the nature
of Nature,

There was still plenty
to keep us awake at night.
Was there a year, ever,
without crisis, without
hand-wringing concern? If so,
when?  I couldn’t find one.
Not one, so I quit looking.

Sometimes the forest
is so thick you can’t see the trees.
Yes  that’s what I meant to say.
The beauty lies in the moments,
not in the days. If it’s peace
you’re hoping to find,
look first inside.

Foggy Weather

Sitting in a quiet kitchen,
pale lemon on a sunny day,
but on this day
the mountains wear mist.

A shroud of fog and a scent
of cinnamon are my companions.
The rain raineth
and the wind bloweth.

The weather
is just another thing
we can’t change in this year
of posturing and lies.

In the face of bad politics
and puzzling weather,
Will poetry die?
I think not.

I read that poetry
is not the language
we live in; it is
the language of change.

It allows us to dwell
in the truth of humanity,
to break through the rubbish
and the rain.

Poetry turns these glum walls
back to their lemony sheen
and into a haven of cinnamon rolls
and a cup of a robust blend.

A Nexus of Love and Craft

I have never owned
a pickup truck
nor watched one fall
to rust
and yet I sense the sorrow
of decay.

I hesitate to share with you
another truth: in all my time
upon this earth
my dancing with the moon
has always been
a state of mind.

As for that gnarled oak
I wrote, I hold that old tree
dear, but the purpose
of that poem
is barely more
than metaphor.

The sea’s engaging song
is not my song,
but it is a part of me
and note, I do not
chase the wind
physically.

My internet connection
is functioning just fine
but based on others’ troubles,
if it were not, the X
would probably leave me here
to  rot.

As for the innocence that died
with just a sigh,
I was listening to Don Henley;
he sang a song so sad
it almost
made me cry.

Every new born poem,
every song that’s sung,
is a conglomeration of things
we’ve seen, things we’ve dreamed
and only sometimes,
things we’ve done.

 

Elegy for Innocence

Somebody dreams, and somebody cares,
Somebody’s lost in the fog somewhere.
O, the songs that we sang, and the games
that we played were the closest we got
to the promises we made.

We were young; we were free,
Some were arrogant, some bold.
Some sensed the truth
but with a loose hold.

Somebody danced to somebody’s tune
and those who weren’t dancing
were howling at the moon.  Lessons were learned,
tall tales were told but none of us thought
we would ever grow old.

We were young but not free,
though none of us knew.
Everybody’s owned by somebody
it’s true.

Then somebody said in the driest of tones,
If you gotta be owned, make sure it’s by you.
‘Cause anything else just doesn’t make sense.
Then with barely a sigh,
Innocence died.