A Cosmic 2x4
A Cosmic 2x4 came crashing down
from only God knows where, whacking
humanity on the head, cracking it open
to let in the light of understanding. But
stubborn as we are, we have to suffer
the grief and pain of abject humiliation
before we learn our lesson; only then
can we live in peace again.
The Mote in His Eye
At first, he annoyed me, his commentary
on social media, his brazen trollism
and wanton disrespect for our prime minister’s
position, tearing the man down with nasty
innuendo, implying sexual impropriety on his
mother’s part, and calling him a bastard child;
and I asked myself, what is it about our freely
elected leader that bothers him so? It can’t
be his policies, what do they have to do with
his parentage? Why slander our prime minister
with innuendo? And the more I reflected, the
more I saw the mote in his eye, and his impish
shadow jumped out of its skin and revealed
itself to me: it’s not who our prime minister is
that gets under his skin, it’s who he himself
is not; and rather than annoy me now, his
shameless trollism amuses me.
The Incomparable New Yorker
I always get consolation reading
him, a distinguished man of letters
always commensurate with a changing
world, who from his fledgling youth
devoured the only magazine he longed
to write for, the incomparable New
Yorker that published his short stories,
nurtured his career, and launched him
into a cruel, resentful world (“a minor
novelist with a major style” who “has
nothing to say”) to give the
mundane
its beautiful due, which he did with
genius, and “giddy delight.”
A Simple Declaration
Words are not enough
to express all my love for you;
and if they are, I don’t have them
to say what you mean to me. Of
course, there are always roses.
Yellow are my favorite, but red
say love much better; and there
are Valentine cards with just the
right verse, if you can find it.
But best of all, with no cost but
my whole heart and soul, is a hug,
a kiss, and a simple declaration:
I LOVE YOU.
“It”
but doesn’t quite know it—
another experience, another
poem, another nanometer closer.
Then something she said gave the poet
away: “Most of the time I feel as if I’m
in
service of the poem,” she said; but not
until
she sees that “it” is in equal service of
her, will
she have “it,” and Jane will be whole and
complete.
Maybe Someday…
There’s a poem I want to write,
but I don’t know how.
The idea is so big, I don’t know
where to begin.
It started in Annecy, France
when I meditated on a maple leaf
and became one with the all;
And it ended in my mother’s kitchen
when I experienced my immortal nature,
and the all became me.
My poem came out this way,
But it’s not what I wanted to say.
The poem that I want to write
is still beyond my sight;
Maybe someday…
