Schrödinger’s Cat

So, I was here watching Schrödinger’s cat,
Now it’s both dead and alive:
How it has managed this, I do not know.
Somehow, though, it did contrive

So both to be and to not-be at once
Putting poor Hamlet to shame:
So the old Law of Non-Contradiction’s
Broken, and I am to blame.

So in the middle of Animal Rights
Physics, and Theater too —
I’ve violated immutable laws
What’s a poor blogger to do?

 

Flotation Device

Reality’s not what she wants it to be,
And so she makes her own
In the virtual pages she fills each night
In her study, all alone,

At a place and a time and with people there
Who speak to the ears of the wise;
For the thoughts that she spills through her fingers and hands
Serve as a flotation device.

For everyone learns that this world is a swirl,
And each day, and undertow —
That the ropes we may don when we’re very young
Can keep us from where we want to go.

So she casts her words widely, for anyone
Who may read to cling on to:
For kindness, it seems, is in short supply
In a world that misvalues the true.

  At a tiny old desk and a darkening room,
  In a “you’d-pass-by” surrounding —
  Comes a world that serves as flotation device
  For all of us
 
  Who’re drowning

On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer

He let imagination play
And spill across each fevered page;
Of life spent at a breakneck pace,
Of love and hate and
Sex and rage

And peaceful moments that would touch
The hearts of any who might see;
But wonders now, and over-much,
If all of it’s
Not vanity

He wanted what he wrote to shine,
The brilliance of a million suns;
But now, he simply wants to write
Some thoughts that you’d read
More than once


 

(“On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer” – 7-11-2015)

Spent Manic Blossoms

The few, short hours that we get
To sit upon the dying grass,
The days of sunlight soon to fade,
As they, like we, are born to pass –

Habitual endearing of
Those close enough to plunder —
And this, we’ve come to glorify;
It sort of makes you wonder

A song this morning played, a song
Of love that just went wrong;
It had a beat, we danced to it,
It didn’t last that long

Then guided by our appetites
We craved the beat unceasing –
And bought what wasn’t anyone’s
For having or for leasing

It’s only life. It’s only art.
It’s only six A.M. —
The sun is shaking off its sleep,
It’s soon to rise again –

I think the sun’s benign, another
Elementary blunder;
In days that butcher who they can –
It sort of makes you wonder

The girl that’s looking straight at me
Is only eight years old;
She knows no trepidation, she
Is wild as she is bold

How can the aging father say
The young should wary be?
I turn to go about my day,
And trust posterity

Will lead her to a world of light
The world she sees before her;
I won’t pour water on her soul,
Not badger, nor ignore her

Perhaps, she is a healer, not
One made to mar or plunder —
What she could be, we should have been,
It sort of makes you wonder

Behold, the living narrative
Is spun before our eyes;
It’s there to tell us how to live,
What we should hate, or prize –

But every kind of shadow blocks
Some other kind of light;
And wear whatever mask you will
It’s coming off tonight

Insanity and vanity,
They’re our one legacy;
As we will follow slavishly
Our prized un-parity –

It kind of makes you wonder;
Then again, it just may not —
The few, short hours that we get
To sit until
We rot

I Wandered Into Poetry

I wandered into poetry
Since little else made sense;
For all the clots and retinues
Grew steadily more dense –

But here, in this reality,
I’ve found it to be true
That where our finest speech does naught,
The slightest touch
Might do
 


 

(“I Wandered Into Poetry” – 7-17-2015)

Near Miss

Years ago
I knew this girl
With a beautiful face and
A beautiful heart

And I didn’t fall in love with her
Nor did I date her

Just in case readers of this blog
Might have started to think
That never happened to me

As a matter of fact, she is now around 50
Like I am
And she’s still beautiful
And we’re still friends

Truthfully, I am still friends with
Virtually all of my
Ex-girlfriends
Mis-dates
Even my ex-wife

Possibly because
None of them know about this blog

I would hope, however, they would approve
Of the models I choose to represent them
In the stock photos I use on these pieces

Anyway, this girl
Looked like the model in the picture above
And she was always cold
Even during Florida summers

And last year, online
As we exchanged pleasantries
She told me that
She had a cat years ago
That she named after me

Because he was so bizarre

And I kind of liked that

… The Game Is Ours

A man my age should better know:
But I do not. And so I go
About spare minutes spinning rhymes;
To jot them down, and post betimes.

I write: of heartache, and of loss;
Anomalies I come across;
The nonsense that infests my head
When first I’m getting out of bed;

Of love and aging; joy and woe;
Of how far, still, we have to go;
And many other things beside.
My interests are strange and wide.

What do I hope to do with this?
I hit sometimes, but often miss,
The targets that I’m aiming at:
But post in spite of all of that.

But all I really hope to gain?
To share my thoughts: the joy, the pain,
The emptiness I might go through,
In hopes that when you read it, too

You’ll nod your head, and say “I know”.
And recognize me, as you go,
As one like you, who does his best;
Who tries and sometimes fails the test

But still shows up – we’re all still here.
We speed along, we ride the curve,
And whether far away or near,
The game is ours, if we’ve
The nerve