The Optimist’s Shadow
Eighty percent chance of rain,
but it might not.
Seventy percent chance of pain,
but it might not.
Sixty percent chance of division,
but it cannot.
Fifty percent chance of revision,
but it will not.
Forty percent chance of caring
but does it matter.
Thirty percent chance of waring,
and this will matter.
Twenty percent chance of sunshine,
and this will make it clearer;
the optimist’s shadow is hard to find,
and a winter of discontent is ever nearer.
Potential
The gap between capability
and dreams.
The gravitational energy of
massive demand.
The measured charge of every ion
of your being.
To be overcome with
just a nudge, a spark.
In the right direction
toward the future.
Toward your dreams.
Soul Wish
Let me bring the world texture
Let me be a brilliant color mixture
Or maybe, I’d be the base of a sculpture
Full of life, and activity it would capture
Or the base-color of a painting, green
I think, for it must be of beauty and serene
This color is for everywhere, as in spring
And the stems of the flowers I would bring
Or because, I have nothing more than rhymes
Of a poet in my capacity, and in these times
I’ll bring you, as I can, if I might, just a tiny smile
As you read this, and think of me for just a while
Conflating race indifference and hate with the dearth of O2 in India at the height of a pandemic surge… reminds me of how precious O2 really is. And yet it is our most abundant resource.
Oxygen
Oxygen becomes precious
when it is needed most,
When breath is reduced to wheeze
by the maskless and closeness,
or by oppressive indifference.
When division ensures hate
consumes the air in the room,
to sell at a higher price.
They profit by mining
the abundant air and racism.
Few rule at the expense
of the many and profit
from what all need as
our minds become confused
due to lack of oxygen.
Can a crossword puzzle incomplete be a metaphor for life, in sense of unfinished works that occupy us until we can somehow move on… and the dark places makes us wonder what opportunities were lost as we occupy our minds and waste time?
Crossword
I think, leave it alone,
Stupid worn magazine
With puzzle barely born
Words down
Words across
Words all around
I could ignore
If it wasn’t unfinished
By someone long before
Black voids are opportunities lost.
Nothing escapes the realization
Of the gravitational cost
Weighing into someone’s
Unfinished works
Into loneliness of no-one’s
But my own bent time
And stretched space
In occupy of my mind
Transfixed
We are fortunate to know the hows
of the universe, the science of most
while still being wholly astonished
by its beauty and mystery and whys
of a universe that presents
itself to our senses, to our minds
and lives in our hearts and souls
along with bright and dark energy
and time and space warping black holes.
We are one with this world,
we are the stuff of stardust.
This world gives us life and so we
must be kind to our mother
who bore us to moments
of insight and beauty
that leave us amazed
and transfixed as we
gaze upon the countenance
of this universe
with still no meaning found
just many more questions
and entropy of words abound.
“R’s”
react, resolve, rationalize, repeat…
render, redo, recommend, repeat…
relax, release, remember, repeat…
Waiting to be Found
How many children are like spare change
Lost wherever guardians rested
Valued only when someone digs deep
Between the cushions of safety and horrors
Of cough drops, tissues, decaying food
Of violence and poverty and pain
To be found and pulled from oblivion
And with a bit of shine, to be a value
To be exchanged for sweetness
Of ideas of survival, of nobleness
Of humanity and inspiration
For those of us who never
Knew the pangs of being lost
The Morning Commute
Each morning they make the commute
From nesting lands toward the rising sun
Shining in their eyes and warming
Thousands of them
With their squeaks and squawks
Each and all protesting the commute
Or sharing their thoughts on breakfast
As part of their morning ritual
Only to do it all over again in reverse
Toward a setting sun
With the glory of a day being done
Still protesting their commute
Or telling of the day’s wins
As they squeak and squawk their way home
Just to do it all again, tomorrow.
Lady Time
The sinews of life can seem brittle
And Time she is short and maybe a little
Annoyed with those of us
Who curry favor and fuss
About getting somewhere, being done
That we fail to appreciate, while on a run
That we are using her up, willing her speed
Until we no longer have this very need
And we find our place on the porch
Telling stories of carrying the torch
The chair cackling laughter in rhythm time
At our desires to slow, and pace our mind
So, she may choose to be a little unkind
If we have asked too much of Lady Time