the morning was, and she believed;
the autumn, shy and reticent
came timidly to call her name.
the angels fell like leaves in droves
and she a purple memory lived
within a house, a home, a dream.
the languor that comes easily
can bring us rest, if we but see --
the morning came, and she believed.
the sun was
a better boyfriend:
the way she liked, and
at happier times
so hey, i'm not letting the butter thing go.
i read and loved this, so you know;
and Ra, it's not just this month you host:
it is that i now know the hidden work most.
so one last look at where we've been:
at crowded pages, full of vim,
for golden kisses, warm and right,
and frozen moonlight walks, last night.
of prime directives, thoughtfully;
of melted minds, within the sea
of things that change our lives, when we
count backwards from eternity.
the ashes of dead stars we are.
and humor can take us as far
as we can go, when finding faults
can keep us locked within our vaults
but in the end, it's just for fun:
i'm sure that i've left out someone
who wasn't on the master page
so don't resent me, please, or rage
if you have read all of this way
and do not see your blog today.
i did the best i could, you see
with all this time insomnia
across the pages, towering and slow,
the words and phrases, measured and precise;
the aching, felt first centuries ago,
contained within a uniform device
that tells what beats and syllables to use.
although some variations are allowed,
some things to add, a few that you can lose,
pentameter, both lyrical and proud,
contains within its limits, all the joys
that human kind can feel, as well as fears
that join into our hearts' increasing noise,
this golden mix of love and hope and tears.
these voices, who could not imagine us,
that we don't understand, but still, discuss.
while little we predict may yet come true,
we confidently state that this or that
is bound to happen, plain as blue is blue,
and rarely see we're wearing the tin hat
that indicates we may be way off base.
but reinforcement comes: the internet
is good for that. whatever be your case
there's someone who agrees, and who'll abet.
so being wrong's a cottage industry:
a chance to bark, to posture, and to fight;
we join into this ill community
and rather would "be right" than "get it right".
but all of it's unreal, except the mess
that comes from words carved out of emptiness
we're so unlike,
we could be twins,
which does not even
make much sins,
but that's just how
we roll 'round here:
shoot from the hip,
let us look deeply
into our own blindness,
everything we can't see;
for the sources of our
problems are many, but
we remain convinced,
none of them
people who know me, know
that i'm a crashing bore;
i prate on endlessly --
i'm not quite sure what for --
i cure insomnia, i think,
with sentences prolific:
and i know some can soothe with words,
but mine are
they all called him a monster,
for having scales and spikes;
then went back to their safety zones
of pages, views, and likes
but he was not a monster --
he was in fact, refined --
but words can be most harmful
when they are least
whisper where the wind blows west,
murmur as your mind-paths meld
into yellow yesterdays
by the vanishing beheld --
leaves are rustling, and soft
grows a feeling, undefined:
susurration, sounds that say,
you need not leave everything
He hears the
Words she whispered once
She meant them
And really loved him
That one lost autumn
By what you cannot do
Is arbitrary in the extreme
Since the number of such things
In truth, we are
The sum of all the things
We do, or have done.
Worrying about limitations
Is like worrying about
Not winning at the Olympics
When you aren’t even entered.
The best days we ever have
Aren’t about how we feel,
But how others feel, around us.
If I was an Instagram model,
And knew daily that
Thirteen million people
Saw pictures of my butt and thought,
“Hey... I like that”
I’m not quite sure what
I’d think about anything else.
Or that I ever would.
Social media algorithms
Think I care about odd things.
Facebook thinks I want to see
Cheesy morality tale videos.
I do, but...
How did they know?
When I was a kid,
I used to hear,
“Never criticize someone
Until you have walked a mile
In their moccasins.”
This was part of
The popular wisdom of the time,
Where empathy involved
The appropriation of slippers.
And culture, apparently.