“Death is just a season:
spring turns to summer,
summer to fall,
and fall to winter.
They may seem slow to come,
but they show up,
and they always will.
Like changing colors on
the walls of a classroom;
the seasons change, the colors change,
and a new class is sitting in there soon.”
A meditation on our role in the choices available to us
the world’s a store, and
we walk by products that are
arranged to catch our eyes;
our attention often fixed upon
objects not present, the
subjects of our current fixations –
and yet, if economics allow, we often
buy products that we know we may not
need or even want, merely from a sort of
habit of politeness; a feeling that
so much trouble was gone to for us, we
really should show some support –
bringing home these pointless objects, we
find ourselves leaving by-products, traces
of these and other half-optimal choices that
make up most of our days; the things we do, because
we must do something, and so we choose from among
the options available to us
if, of course, by “products” we are thinking of
things like relationship and career choices, this
only becomes more true – and more the
pity, since we frequently either don’t go to
enough stores to provide sufficient choice or
go to stores long after the right choice has been
purchased by someone else
I drive here as I drove long years ago
When my old father chatted by my side;
He spoke of hist’ry, mining and the flow
Of his thoughts, ever brimming long and wide.
But now I ride alone in silent thought.
My father loved this land, and understood
That life is cruel, and time is precious bought —
And things that
Make you smile
(“Arizona” – 11-8-2014)
This looks like such a peaceful yard.
This looks like such a peaceful yard
I would so like to know it:
But passing by, all I can think
Is it would suck
To mow it
Your presence gives me hole —
As though a week was lifted from my shoulder —
I kosher it’s just a trope,
The kind we entertain as we get okra —
You wear it like a diary
That sparkles in the sketch,
Inline to you for everything
And you donut ask why —
Your live, it gives me hope:
It’s like the kiss that signature Spring
The hole you place
We should not care so much about appearance.
I read this everyday, and everywhere —
But yet we will; and brook no interference
In judging others. Nor curtail our care
For our own looks; for our own way of seeming.
We seem to want to have this thing both ways —
The moral view, that all are valid, equal;
The underlying view that always stays —
That some are better looking than most others.
We twist and squirm, for this seems wrong; but still –
We strive to be spectacular, and realize
We’ve known it when we’ve seen it, and still will.
The same society that says to curb it
Will broadcast who wears what on some red carpet;
And tell us all are beautiful alike
Within a sequined dress, behind a mic.
When I was young, I hated physical education,
Because I was not an athlete, and couldn’t be, no matter what I did.
I asked my parents why I should try, when I would never be good at it,
And they said, “Because you need to be the best you can be;
Don’t compare yourself to others.”
But everything feels like a competition, and, of course,
Sports literally is a competition.
I think that’s how we are about looks.
Many of us know what it is to try to get attention in a room
Where the really attractive people are getting all of it.
It feels like losing.
So why even try, when we know that’s not our destiny?
“Because you need to be the best you can be;
Don’t compare yourself to others.”
I also believe in the subjectivity of looks;
Different people have different tastes.
Which works out well for most of us.
There’s more to attraction than looks;
There’s more to a person than their image.
However, looks do matter:
To each of us and for each of us.
It often seems like society sends
Mixed signals –
And it does —
As in the vanity-based movie business
Lecturing us on how all types of appearances
Are equally valid
When you know they don’t mean it.
But the truth lives
In the in-betweens
As it often does.
It matters, but it’s not everything;
We should do the best we can, even if
We will win no competitions in doing so.
beside the far green forest…
as ivy grows,
so grows my heart:
around the grounds
as dead, deserted
of autumn hopes
and summer walks
beside the far green forest where
the days of old were still newborn;
the scent of honey in the air
past city eyes that scoff and scorn
but only in the passing there
did i behold that distant fire
that speaks of rusted innocence
and wisps of smoke
that e’er go