Glimpses From A Window
What is a poem?
These lyrical little glimpses of life,
Snippets from the window of one's soul;
A tiny picture framed in rhyme,
Formed by words as they unfold.
'Come, let me show, let me demonstrate',
Pleads the poet's gentle sigh.
'Let my words paint a landscape of life,
Of the sun and stars, moon and sky.'
Quickly the words leap out from the page
Flowing swiftly like waters downstream;
Painting a portrait of metaphor,
Creating a world filled with dreams.
Finding our souls with a measure so sure
That the truth of it cuts like a knife.
Leaving us wondering who stole our tale
In a glimpse from the window of life.
A thousand million tentacles
Reaching skyward toward the sun,
Laid bare against the winter sky,
The summer's tale undone.
Where once the hue of green and gold
Stood succulent and lush,
A nakedness abides amidst
The frigid snow and slush.
Winter trees are stark, foreboding,
Knowing no defeat.
They reach out to the sun in hope,
Like beggars in the street.
Waiting for the gentle spring,
The kindness of a friend,
To give its warmth and sustenance
And bring it life again.
The Sun Still Rises
The world may look as if it's gone
To Hades in a basket.
The streets may cry with hatred;
The open road with fear.
The battlegrounds explode
To give combatants the impression
That the world itself has come apart;
May not survive the year.
But the sun still rises.
And you may try to run away
And hide from grave misfortune;
Denying the existence of
Mortality and fears,
And you may quake to know
That each beginning has an ending;
That all must someday be
The sad recipient of tears.
But the sun still rises.
And though all life may pass away,
Come the dawning of the day,
The sun still rises.
What are your favorite aromatics?
I'm sure that you have quite a few.
I have some thoughts with which you may agree.
Come! Let me share them with you.
What could be better than freshly baked bread?
It makes the mouth water;
A pallet's delight.
Almost as refreshing as gentle spring rain
Coming softly and quiet on a hot dusty night.
The sweet lofty smell of vanilla in baking
Arrives on wings sent from heaven above.
The bold brawny scent of a coat made of leather;
Another aroma that I've come to love.
To open the door, for the very first time,
Of a brand new car as it sits on the lot.
To breathe in deeply the heavenly scent
Of your favorite coffee fresh from the pot.
But of all of the odors abundant on earth
To tease the olfactory nerve,
The lilacs of spring are my personal choice.
A memory cherished, to keep, to preserve.
So, keep these and others, your own favorite scents.
Remember and treasure them well.
One of god's greatest gifts to the human condition
Is our marvelous, glorious sense of smell.
Aches and Pains
Oooh! My gosh! My goodness!
That never hurt before.
In younger days I could overdo
And still come back for more.
But these days even simple acts,
Like the turning of the head,
Can cause an aching in the neck
And be a source of dread.
The acts of bending, kneeling, stooping,
Reaching, grabbing hold,
Offer up a quick reminder
Of the pains of growing old.
It makes it necessary to learn
Modesty and pace;
To deal in moderation
And not try to run a race.
The wise man learns that brawn
Is not a substitute for brains.
It helps when age requires us all
To deal with aches and pains.
Rivers and Lakes
Rolling, flowing, freely filling,
Mighty rivers run downhill,
Capturing each dewdrop
They encounter on the way.
Seeking larger basins to
Deposit all their bounty;
Gravity, it seems,
The only law they must obey.
Greening all the lands which would
Lay bare without their favor;
Playful home to creatures
Who exits on fin and gill.
Bountiful the harvest
Planted near her mighty shoulders.
No great plan to undertake;
No duty to fulfill.
Lakes and rivers are the givers.
Mankind takes from rivers and lakes.
The Complaint Department
Sorry, sir or madam,
The complaint department's closed.
You'll need to tell someone
Who gives a damn.
I've simply heard enough of
Your inane and moany whining.
Come again tomorrow.
Thank you, ma'am.
Why is it people whine and moan
And cry and plead in bitchy tones?
Why can't they just accept things
And react as if they're fully-grown?
It's children's ploy to make a noise
And fuss when things don't go their way.
Maturity should bring us reason,
But it doesn't, sad to say.
So, I repeat redundantly,
As I sit relaxed, reposed,
This complaint department,
Regrettably, is closed.