We sat and ate Korean in this place
that sits amid the poorer part of town,
with Al Jazeera on the tv screen,
and folks of every age and place of birth
And after eating, as we sought the car,
a homeless man, who once fought in the war,
approached us for a word. He said that he
lived outdoors now – the V.A. was no help –
We gave him all the cash we had, but he
said that he did not want it; but, instead,
that he would say a blessing for us there,
for although poor in money, rich in grace
was he. Who owns ideas – and who owns men?
He asked – I do not know –
(Originally posted 3-13-2016 – Owen)
so many stories lost in ugly things.
the common world we choose to think beneath —
and so, we hear not what each echo brings:
remembered songs their lives to us bequeath.
a moment for reflection – just a turn –
it’s all we really need, it’s all it takes —
we have to know the tales, so we can learn
and not just substitute some new mistakes —
we should not venerate, nor should we scorn,
the lessons of the many come before;
and though new problems every day are born,
we didn’t invent hate, or love, or war —
for time will the turn pages of the book,
the chapters we will miss, if we don’t look.
So, did Love once remind you who you are?
And now, do you remind Love who she is?
Perhaps we overstep in thinking we
Have understood enough to see that far.
For very far, indeed, must be our ken
If we think that we can direct Love’s path;
No more can we control the very stars
Than tell Love when she must come back again.
The light may fade, the angels fold their wings,
The dinosaurs come back to roam the earth,
And habit tie itself into a bow:
While we must merely stand, and watch such things —
But Love — It lives and travels as it will,
So in Its time, prepare to drink your fill
You gave because you give. You didn’t ask.
For byzantine as hearts must often be,
For you, there’s rhythm, and there’s melody,
And morning-after sun in which to bask,
And rudiments of lessons that we teach,
When we find learning there, within our reach.
But who am I, that you should favor me?
I sometimes think you chose in too much haste,
But then, the outline of your form is traced
By fingers touching skin-rich piquancy,
And light itself backs off from pride of place
Belonging to the wonder on your face.
You didn’t ask, because superfluous
Are words beyond which, there is here, and us.
Within the vineyard of her honeyed youth
The red wine flows through long and draping vines;
From sharpest grape it runs to sweetest tooth,
Down where the soil and the sun combines
To bring about a type of miracle.
A marvel that she’s not thought on for years:
A thing that’s not the least satirical,
A sober thing of ancient engineers.
For light and flippant are her thoughts these days,
Of vanity and life amid the stars;
The latest trend, the hottest fashion craze,
And all the best of nightclubs and of bars —
She stops and blinks, a teardrop to conceal;
Within her father’s vineyard, life was real
Picture / Photo Credit : © Mikhalevich | Dreamstime.com – Vineyards. Watercolor. Photo
From certain viewpoints, we are one big thing.
All of our many purposes subsumed
Into a general purpose, tendency –
A type of fate to which our kind is doomed.
It matters not the packages you choose,
It matters little which route you might take:
For viewed from up above, we all are one,
And all we do seems is for the species’ sake.
In hives made out of hives, we plan our ways,
A part within an all-consuming whole;
Perspective shows that we are but a bit
Within a drama where we’ve one small role —
But this is idle folly, and not true:
For it is us who reached this height, and view
In variegated swirls of innocence
She flashed across a hundred different brains;
Her words, so many fine-tuned instruments
To bring to life the latest fashion pains
Of many different patterns she knew all;
But all she knew she was but loth to share –
To stand and laugh at loathsome mercy’s fall
And point, in hopes that others, too, would stare
By colors torn directly from the press
Of new wine in the skins of wrinkled old,
She taxed the new pariah’s wickedness
And left fine statues broken, in the cold —
With all the venom she can call to hand
She’ll ban simplicity from every land