The Way of the Damned

Sisyphus pushes his rock up hill

While Atlas bears his load.

Damned by the ire of capricious gods,

Forced down a toilsome road.

And so it is with the gods of thrill

Who trap and hold you fast

With opioids and images,

Perniciously unsurpassed!

Beware the promise of wealth or skill

Contained in a bottle brown.

Hold to the rod of simple truth

Lest you be taken down!

Poets

So you fancy that you know the poet?

I for one, wouldn’t dare make that claim!

Poets have ventured where few men have been,

And the poet is no stranger to pain.

Poets don’t live on the same plane as most,

Theirs is much deeper and higher.

They have dipped their quills in the blackest of ink

And climbed farther than most can aspire.

In a way, he is like a reporter

But his stories do not come second hand.

When his words bring to life vivid scenes of delight

You can bet there’s more gold in the sand.

The poet who writes of the joys of a puppy

And paints pictures of frolic and play

Has watched his companion grow old and pass on,

And thanked the good Lord for the days.

The man who rejoices at a burgeoning oak

Just breaking forth from the brown

Has sat in the shade of a towering red wood

And wept when it fell to the ground.

When the words of a bard touch you deep with its truth

And ring in your heart like a bell

You can bet that he paid for that seed with his youth

Or snatched it from some unknown hell.

For ‘tis poets, not fools who will quickly rush in

Where good men and angels refrain.

Only there do his cryptic words yield their meaning

Only there can you feign know his pain.

The Mud Won't Get Glovey

Throw your white glove in a puddle of mud.
Let it represent all of your toil.
The mud won’t get glovey, for crud is still crud,
But your glove, I’m afraid, will be soiled.

Take particular care in the friends that you keep,
For your friends either lift or drag down.
Choose those who propel toward goals that you seek;
Shun those with the cheek and the frown.

Yes, there is room in the world for a kind word to all,
For the saint and the ruffian alike.
Pray, offer your hand to those who would fall,
But be watchful for serpents will strike.

Walk a Mile in Their Shoes

Without remorse, he told the tale
Of willful acts of poaching.
And I, his friend, had balled my fist,
Preparing to reproach him.
But he went on to describe the time;
Nine siblings of meager means,
With no father to supply them bread;
The meat had stretched the beans.

A blue-haired girl in studded jeans,
Piercings adorned her face.
I scoffed inside at this punked out girl
Who had set herself so out of place.
And yet her clothes were modest and clean,
And she carried her head aloft.
Her apparel screamed, “PLEASE, NOTICE ME!”.
But her spirit was mild and soft.

We live in a world with billions of souls;
Diverse and dynamic and vast.
We must yet find a way to get along
If a peaceable world is to last.
Yes, in judging the acts of our brothers,
I profess we react too fast.
For each sinner yet has a future . . .
And every saint has a past! *

* Oscar Wilde . . .    "Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future."

If I could Write a Book

If I could write a book, my son,
And put it in your hand,

So many things of life and love
I’d have you understand:

Of books to read and hills to climb
And foods you need to taste;
The value of your closest friend,
And time you dare not waste.

If I could write a book, my son,
And, if I could write it well,
One chapter there would stand alone;
One theme on which to dwell.

I’d write of bridges wide and strong;
Of beams that bear their load,
Unwavering in the task assigned,
So, worth their weight in gold!

I’d write of honest men and true,
Dependable and brave,
Who brook their trials like a king;
Noble-born or slave!

But alas, my son, I would write in vain.
This truth you know, and well:
This chapter you must write alone;
Not mine, but yours to tell!

To all my children!

Irony in the Sky

White chevron squadrons usher in spring
With squawking and honking and flapping of wings.
Their return brings a weekend to revel in fun.
The locals all love it, and hundreds more come!
But the poor migrant snow goose must be sorely perplexed;
Revered on one weekend, then slaughtered the next!

Aging Workforce

All around, the work place ages;
A familiar book with yellowed pages.
In the cubes and office spaces:
Knowing eyes in wrinkled faces.

Once flowing hair and handsome head
Is grey or glistens bald instead.
Hear the rasp of coughing; chronic.
Health-nuts leave too soon; ironic.

Strangers in community;
Shipmates in a torrent sea,
Drawn closer as they look ahead;
Careful planning, full of dread.

Youthful fishers, from the side,
Spread their hopeful nets out wide.
Patient; waiting there to see.
What will be their legacy?

Chocolate

When I reach for that truffle, why do I wilt?
What fills that bliss with such heartburn and guilt?
I venture this finding, although some are not sold;
It isn’t the chocolate, it’s just that I’m old!

Chocolate’s not evil as some people say.
It is God-given succor when you’ve had a bad day!
No worry for young folks with years yet to live here,
But moderation is better for old folks I fear.

For the old can’t eat chocolate at night before sleep,
Only by morning, then just once a week!
They can smell it at bedtime, but never partake,
Lest their heartburn reflux and it keeps them awake!

Though a feast would fulfill, they must nibble and taste
Or that gold-foiled entree will end up on their waist!
Gone are the days of the trencherman glutton,
The elders are wise, but their buttons won’t button!

The virtues of chocolate outweigh any harm,
That is, if you’re young, so here’s the alarm:
Listen close to old wisdom and never forget,
"Eat well while you’re young child, or die with regrets!"

The Mark of a Man

His epitaph read, “This Man was Well Known”.
Nothing remarkable; just what was expected.
Better by far when the rock dust was blown
Had the chisel imprinted, “A Man Well Respected”!

2009

Don't Wait 'til its Raining

Life prods us hard in the race to succeed.
But why push so hard when we've more than we need?
Too many men fail to see God’s good favor
Until weather forbids them their toil and their labor.

If the clouds rule the day, with their dark consternation,
Before we will pause to obey inspiration,
Then our verses will echo that tone of foreboding,
And darker we'll wax while our lives are imploding.

So “work while the sun shines”, yes, “work with a will”,
But take a break often and pick up your quill
To write about things that are happy and funny.
Don’t wait ‘til its raining. Act now, while its sunny!

2009

Mid-life Crisis

As youth flows out with middle age,
I find it hard to turn the page.
Life deals the cards and calls our name.
We ante up, or leave the game.

Working, saving, spending, craving

If success is measured by the things we own
By glorious deeds so widely known,
Then I must fold; in shame confess,
“I've lost this hand, I've failed the test.”

Labor, scheming, planning, dreaming

The dreams of youth are so elusive,
Love and fortune, so exclusive,
Time has placed them beyond my grasp,
The lock of age is on the hasp.

Experience, yearning, study, learning

Notions in granite, supplanted anew,
Ideals, so innocent and true
That filled my adolescent thoughts,
Replaced with truth; by patience wrought.

Knowledge, growing, wisdom showing

Life is not over! Not soiled with rust!
The dawn is now! A light to trust.
My coffers fill to overflowing.
My treasures humble, still are growing.

Riches tallied, courage rallied

A home and family; sacred ground,
With spouse and children gathered 'round,
A stronghold, safe from worldly trouble.
My life's net worth has been redoubled.

Go Plant the Seed

I learned a lesson long ago; “What you reap is what you sow.” But what you reap may not indeed Always be just what you need. Confused? No worry! I speak in rhymes. It is people, you see, that change the times. If you plant oats to feed your friends, Well, they’ll want wheat to meet the trends. In the end, it matters not Just who is who, or what is hot! Forget what “they” say, and never give heed. If you want the harvest, go plant the seed!

Written for my daughter when she was having trouble with roommates College.

A Salmon's Tale

Two brothers salmon in the deep blue sea
Got the urge one day to seek some revelry.
So off they both went into the early dawn
With naught on their minds but to swim and spawn.

Up the big river with its mouth so wide,
It must be a mile from side to side.
For days and days those two fish swam
‘Til they ran smack-dab into a concrete dam!

Round and round that great grey wall
They swam, but found no help at all.
Relief came, not from heaven sent,
But sure enough from the government!

A big fish ladder with its lifts and falls
Helped those boys to skirt that wall
Into a lake with its shores so green
The two fish entered on another scene!

As if decreed by constabulary
The lake was fed by five tributaries!
“Which one to take?”, was their question then,
The answer came to the first brother Sven.

“I know where to go”, you could hear him say,
“I’ve been here before! I can find the way!”
So off Sven went, and his brother, Pete, too;
Guided by nothing but Deja Vu!

The stream they chose was swift and clean
But the rocks therein were hard and mean!
Bruised and battered Ol’ Pete said, “ENOUGH!”
“This swim-and-spawn life is just too rough!”

“Swimming all day against the stream?”
“This might be for you Sven, but it ain’t my dream!”
So he turned with the current and went with the flow,
Against his true nature, to the blue sea below.

He passed other salmon, in their eyes was a gleam,
All turning red as they struggled upstream.
Pete was red too from his tail to his face.
When he reached the blue sea, he seemed out of place.

The swimming was easy, with no current to fight,
But Pete couldn’t know of his fate nor his plight.
A flashy red Pete in the bright blue dawn
A sea lion spied him and SNAP! Pete was gone!

In the mean time, Sven kept on swimming for days;
His back out of water in the warm summer rays.
He made his way to a cool sandy brook
And spied a coy babe-fish with a cute little look.

And there on the edge of a loose gravel shoal,
They frolicked and played and fulfilled their role:
They had both done their best; standing out in a crowd.
Sven also died, but his maker is proud!

This tale has a moral, as all good tales do.
A metaphor of life, it is tried and true:
“Swimming through life is no simple feat,
Endure to the end, or end up like Pete!”