BY DECREES

As King, newly appointed,
he mulled over what to do
for his first official act.
The predecessor King was known
to be much a recluse, one
who tolerated people as
a necessity of a Kingdom,
and he would say, a good
source of revenue to the King.
That one didn’t last long, never
imagined the people could
rise up and overthrow a monarch.
He would be more benevolent,
but he did need to make
a strong initial statement.
It came to him – and he
issued a decree banning all
mirrors and shiny surfaces
in public, and he knew
it was a good idea when
everyone else grew ever older,
and he, he knew, never aged a day.


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KEEPING FOCUS

It is of little surprise that we find
this a dizzying world, for we always
try to look forward, but since the future
is often vague, we try and keep one eye
on the past to understand what
our other eye is poorly seeing.

The mind does not care to be
pulled in two directions at once,
objects with stabbing pains, and
when that fails to correct us,
a weariness we cannot overcome.

The Buddha would tell you
it is best to keep both eyes
in the present, to focus softly
and see what is there without
judgement or preconception, to simply

be, assured that all senses are
merely crude tools to shape what
is amorphous into something we
can grasp and file, but time itself knows
there is nothing more than now, ever.


For Something Different, a new bird photo each day, visit my other blog:
Bird-of-the-day.com 

A COMMON TONGUE

It has been said, wisely,
that all children speak
a common language,
regardless of what adults
believe they are hearing.

The proof of that proposition
is simple enough, pause
and watch a parent make
demands of a child
in the presence
of other children, see
the reluctant child glance
at his foreign peers and gain
silent and instant affirmation
of adult unreasonableness.

When do we cease
being able to communicate
without words, in that
language of childhood
that is at once universal
and capable of silence.


For Something Different, a new bird photo each day, visit my other blog:
Bird-of-the-day.com 

ON MORTALITY

Death was never something we considered,
until that certain, ill-defined moment when
our immortality suddenly disappeared, and
in its place was a reality to be avoided.

Even once death became a shadow, always
lurking around us, we kept our face
toward the sun, so that death might
not be seen in the bright light of day.

When a sibling dies, it is always before
their time, before we are ready and
the death is anomalous, and one we grieve,
but as a cruel twist of fate not to be repeated.

Later death becomes a companion,
infrequent we hope, but ever present, and
all that is left for us is to consider which
is the less painful, the sudden departure
without warning or farewell, just gone,

or the slow erosion, a death mourned
during its process, a death of a thousand
goodbyes, until the last, and in the end
it becomes a distinction with no difference.


For Something Different, a new bird photo each day, visit my other blog:
Bird-of-the-day.com 

THAT MOMENT

There is always that moment
when I stand stock-still,
afraid to move, the poised camera
a lead weight on my hands, arms
emaciated hammocks dangling
from shoulders inviting something
that will not come into focus.

The Great Blue heron, who is the sole
focus of my attention, stares at me,
or through or perhaps past me,
with a patience I try failingly
to emulate, knowing I will
look away, lower the camera, see
an egret, an ibis, someone
who will give me pause, and
the heron will take flight and I
with twitch of finger will capture
that place that she so recently occupied.


For Something Different, a new bird photo each day, visit my other blog:

Bird-of-the-day.com 

TEMPUS FUGIT

She parked her cart across the face
of the bin, she fills the only gap.
She has a look of determination
that says “give me space
if you know what’s good for you.”
She examines each banana
with the care of it gemologist
and you imagine that she wears a loop.
She pulls bunches apart, finally picking one,
then five minutes later the line
behind her in awe and frustration, another one.
There is almost a third, until
as she places it in her cart
she sees something beyond our comprehension,
and back it goes amid the host of rejectees.
I glanced at my watch, realize
how long I have been on this few item shop
and grab three of her misbegotten, then
seeing her head for the grapes,
make my own mad dash to get there first,
so I might get home for dinner.

WRITING MEMORY

It is well past time
I wrote a poem about
the great joys of my childhood,
for memory should bubble up
like lava through the crust of time,
they should rain in flashes
as so much matter dropping
into the atmosphere
in their ultimate light show.
This isn’t going to happen, of course,
whether because memory has
grown dim over time’s distance
or for lack of subject matter.
At 68, the difference hardly matters
for a blank page hardly cares
which pen chooses not to write it.