We’ve never been so connected
and yet we fail to communicate.

We have a lab test with pages of
results, telling us nothing of how we feel.

Caller ID provides our names,
but not who we are.

Polls and surveys ask our opinions,
and yet, leaders fail to understand us.

We have everything delivered
to our door, but there is always more.

AI is anticipating our wants,
but does it know our needs?

We’ve never had such information
at our fingers and yet so little wisdom.

Entertainment always at our beckoning,
may allow creativity to fade.

Are we leaning forward,
while appreciating the past?

Let us pray we not lose our humanity
and creativity in all this modernity.

May Flowers

If we are afield and dancing in a summer wind
We are a spirit of life and love alive within
Aspiring to be the object of desire
A part of life’s spiritual fire
Seeding the color of future days refrain
Feeding the story of life’s magical chain

But rather we are here,
in the vase as a glorious display
in a position of prominent array.

Mixed together by select and art, we’re here to show you
The beauty and spirit of our collective design and hue
We, of the world outside, are here inside
To bring you our beauty, glory and pride
To bring the joy of Mother Earth’s miracle today
As endearment in a vase on this, your Mother’s Day!

Happy Mother’s Day! 

Droughts end with a crash
of rain, and all storms spend
themselves against a rock of  land.

And this too, they say shall pass
This too shall expend its energy
against immovable immortal histories.

The people will choose an
appropriate end to the self-important,
to the agents of chaos and doom.

Just as nature will repair itself
and cleanse itself, and quench
itself as it must to restore order.

Everything returns as a full-circle,
as we forget the lessons once again,
bringing us back over and over again.

Consequently…
An early bird
dines, as a butterfly
vanishes.

Life Struggles…
Love streams
down rosy cheeks,
the river rumbles.

Appearance…
Still waters
belie turbulence
as a heart beats.

Other side of Midnight…
Stars twinkle
at night, finding
the other side.

The sea churning up a storm with winds ferociously
whipping the wave tops into white foam, sending a
salty freshness, belying the power of ominous forces.

The rain pushing forward a dust storm in the desert
billowing, it appears apocalyptic and brings an earthly
musky scent of the world remaking itself.

The scent of love in a springtime afternoon, bringing
life-love of two together as one, in the connection of
bodies, heart and soul.

The leather glove with oils and dirt and the scent of
something that was alive, and lives on in an extension
of a young boy’s hand, living to play.

The dog that played outside with us, wet with the
experience of summer grass, the muskiness of a
spirit unchained by nothing but the will to play.

The lingering presence of fried foods, the scent of
tobacco in a pouch and the curls of smoke that
find attachment to childhood memories.

Until arriving at the beginning where milk is the
ever-present earthy scent, the promise of life
the promise of future and of growth.

And back to the present, where my socks, post-
workout or long-walk capture all the experiences of life and are purportedly apocalyptic… and unresolvable!

Trying to touch the sky,
without knowing how to fly.

Finding that one sentence, that one phrase
which unveils a universal truth, that reveals
the founding thought, the purpose of life,
the exposition of the heart and soul, this
is what we are seeking in the art of the words
of the first lines…

“Two households, both alike in dignity, / In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,” (Shakespeare) 
“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen” (Orwell)
“To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth” (Steinbeck)
“Call me Ishmael.” (Melville)
“All this happened, more or less.” (Vonnegut)

“In the beginning God created the Heavens and Earth” (God)

and so on… for what we want to express,
as the signature of the story, as the soul of
the author, the brush stroke of the artist,
the poet writing a song in our hearts.

Let us be taken on a journey.

Little boy, the world is big
no matter how small it seems
in your mother’s arms, some
fine day you’ll get to see.

Young boy, you’ve learned
of geography and history,
the world seems big now in
eyes filled with wonder.

Young man, there is so
much more to learn of
others, with customs and
beliefs so strange from yours.

Grown Man, see the world as a
bright blue orb in a dark vastness
as you fly far away, exploring
the vastness of space.

Man of power,  how is it
we could be so small,
in the way we see each
other in this shared life?

Old man, see now the world
is small, in the arms of others,
we find we are more alike and
closer than we could’ve believed.

—-

Shared experiences makes
the world seem as it really is…
small and more connected
than we pretend it to be.

Happy Easter!