What is He?

Twinkle, twinkle

In the eye

Revelation of a child’s sigh

Everywhere and all around

Nowhere, nothing, never was

This being of infection

Diseased nation of minds

Infecting and polluting

It is as much to kill as die

The beyond, always something lies

Beyond, and that is the reach

And nothing, they say

Has cured everything

If no one dies and no one thinks

It must be gone, it must be gone

But everywhere the dead and the dying

This being, non-complacent

To met out life, but death—

Child, what is God?

In your eyes and in your smile

A touch, held without duress,

Sweet child, that is all

The God I’ll ever need.

A father’s love

Staring out the window

the old man sees the picture:

laughter and smiles, these bodies still they

tackle and break and the ball

it floats between, less a joy than a symbol

of a father’s love–

he young, to full of life and love

for dearest son–

he still the younger, laughing, adoration still

he sees this game, a day, a week

and weeps upon the broken knees,

this weary flesh–oh time, time

has rotted;

there is no game for he, this is

Life, life he shall not have, nor give,

but still he looks to the growing faces

of the life beside,

and to this image can but smile–

in that child’s eyes

a word, a look are all he needs

to know the love, the deed–

he cannot do, but love can show

in other ways–

sometimes he just needs the reminder.

Oh these regrets, such bitter things–

thank God, thank God, that child

still smiles at me.

My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! Once you’ve had a look, check out some of the other One Shot Poets as well– they’re a skilled bunch of poets, looking to form a community and support one another.  Enjoy!

Nothing is as it seems

I woke up early this morning and literally rolled out of bed with this one on my mind. If it was related to dreams I had last night, then it’s probably a good thing I don’t remember them. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy:

Nothing is as it seems—

The old die old,

The young die young,

One perpetuates the other

In waves of maddening

Disillusion not withstanding—

We are players and audience

The stage ours to watch

And ours to play.

But where is the director?

The play plays on in

Such maddening discourses,

There is a plot twist somewhere—

Is this how it was written?

Read somewhere that parents should

They should never have to bury their children,

But the children fight their wars

And the children fight each other

And the old have lived it all.

The mind reflects in odd ways—

Always they remember the old days as better

Days, but they are gone.

Where is the proof?

The mind is fickle, it remembers

What it wants to remember

So the monologue seems better—

There is no difference.

The old are tired.

All they want to do is to lie down,

But they are watching and waiting—

Am I to die?—

But the young are restless

And in their roaming the world

Every moment and monument is theirs—

But they hasten to sleep

And they do not arise,

And the old weep and laugh in terror.

Of Spring

In honor of the now fully arrived Spring here in Michigan (70s in April? This is a miracle for us), a poem about this beautiful season. I can only hope everyone around me is enjoying the day as well, given all the booze that’s already starting to flow. Final Four Championship today–this place shall be a madhouse. Nevertheless, I give my obligatory shout-out to my fellow Spartans: Go Green!

Anyhow, this poem was composed back in High School, during one of my major poetry bouts:

Spring

Look now the snow is fading,

The grape vines now are creeping

And the frogs once more are leaping.

Flowers reach out for the light-

They had put up quite a fight,

Surviving all the winter fright!

Watch the little children playing-

Lovers on the green grass laying

Death’s dark power now decaying.

The sun’s bright light is beaming,

And the choirs take up singing,

As the Poets start their dreaming-

Dreaming of the days long past-

Spring is here at last!