This is My Mom and Dad

.. there’s a story in how they’re looking …

This is My Mom and Dad

This is my mom and dad
About ten years before my birth;
Where it was taken I do not know
I think somewhere on earth

But there’s a story in how they’re looking
Each at one another;
And somewhere within that look there came
A father and a mother

To three little children, a girl and two boys
As different as dawn, night and noon:
They, of course, did not know all this back then
But they would find out soon

They traveled the world with their children in tow
As each one came along;
From high mountain peaks and the valleys below
With sorrow and with song

Just one other family, I guess, to those
Whose god is “society”:
Obscure and unknown to a fame-obsessed world
But everything
To me

Grace: Full or Less?

My wife would be the ‘graceful’ one, here…

My wife accepts our age, while I
Find it a thing insulting;
That it should come upon us
Without so much as consulting

My strong desire to remain younger.
But it seems, so far:
We’re not as old as we feel, rather
We’re as old
We are

She Doesn’t Miss Him

She doesn’t miss him, not at all
It’s way more fun without him;
No more all those annoying things
She didn’t like about him

She’s independent, smart & strong,
Just fine without a date:
In fact, she feels tons lighter
Without having that
Dead weight


She wanted to understand why I do this.

“You’re very prolific,” she said to me
“More amateur-lific, instead…”

“What Category would you say you’re in?”
(Doggerel’s what I said)

“Much of your poetry’s hard to explain,”
“I see that’s understood”

“You really are quite self-effacing,” she said
“No, I’m just not that good.”

“Do you ever want to be published,” she asked
“I am published. Every day.”

“No I mean where you get paid and all.”
“I’m sorry.
I don’t think
That way.”

“Then why write at all, if you don’t want fame?”
“Look, I am not into fashion:

I write because I like to write and not
To become
Some kind of

Hoarder’s Folly

The things that matter most?

Everything given is taken away,
This is what life’s about;
Many can face this with firm belief,
Others are filled with doubt

So stacking up things brings us comfort, perhaps,
If the things that matter most —
But much that we hoard will seem useless and vain
When we are but
A ghost