Likely you’re reading via the convenience
of your phone, while I enjoy the largess
of my computer screen, and the
convenience of my keyboard
to write these musings.

I never spell ‘convenience’ correctly,
until just now because the computer
conveniently corrected the ‘convenience’
In the stanza above and thus it was super
convenient to have a properly spelled ‘convenience’.

It is a funny word, as you say to someone
“call me at your convenience,”
meaning…  I’m not as busy
or important as you and I’ll happily await your reply,
even though it may be inconvenient to me.

Or, if you are a Brit, a convenience might mean
a toilet, which by now,… may be exactly
where you’d like to convey this musing, but if not
so inclined, I hope you find my musing
conveniently in reach of some thought
or another.

Does a tragedy mature or
is it’s overrun by others?
Growing into memory, fading
into subconsciousness, a fabric
weaved to bring comfort or
shield the blows of others?

More and new, and continuing
for so many, with lasting scars.
Scars which cannot be cut
again, and worse yet
the wounds which heal only
in the finality of the end.

And yet some will not know,
some not yet of age never
felt the shock, never felt the
pain and rage, but know it
though the next and future
tragedies of their lives.

Tragedy seems to mature in
its own way, changing the
world and us in the
crucible-melting of our
innocence, until hard
lessons-learned are forgotten.

We live in an age of miracles,
ourselves a miracle of evolution,
a miracle of randomness, and order,
surprises and opportunities.

We live with trials and failures,
recovery and retries abound,
the freewill to rise again, or
to fall into our own pit of pity.

We cheer the persistent,
the ones who fight through
their own faults and failures
to bring their own miracle to life.

We know randomness, as
well as order, and lean into order
as we are the product of miracles,
building upon the miracles of others.

I answered a question never asked,
thought something which never was.
Then wrote it on a page which
remained stubbornly blank,
and lifted into the sky while
held by gravity onto this Earth.

I held a book open to a page,
felt the words sear in my heart,
yet they painted no lucid picture
in my mind, as spirit of something
greater drifted by, somewhere on
high as gravity held me firm.

I then looked down and saw
it was good, it was home, it was
our Earth, and place to revere,
to grow things, ourselves, each other
to raise up.  As gravity, in its way
brought me to my knees in prayer.

It is quiet this morning,
even the dog barking
down the street stopped
to listen to the nearly
soundless morning, of
the world keeping a
secret which must not
yet be told… only hinted.

Like there is something
more to come, something
more to know, something
more to be experienced.
Something which Nature
will keep a secret, until
we are finally told…
and certainly feel.

Language, an art, a path
to enjoyment, to emotions,
to inform, or inflame and
divide.

A path toward truth,
education, and inspiration,
or conspiracies improbably
evil.

But evil is not sourced
by the words themselves,
it is rather in the hearts
resonating.

Resonating and feeding
the division, and the passion,
and the hate of weak, closed
minds.

All for power, and wealth,
like preacher’s of the word,
some pluck strings, certain of
resonance.

The resonance of hate
amplified, instead of reason,
understanding, and
compassion.

Those who reason, those
who know the truth
must expose purveyors of
lies.

It is an existential battle
of ideas, and language
is the ammunition of
war.

Words are ideas, having
immense power… let us
pray the language of truth
prevails.

If there’s a place to walk
in a city, where people
desire to stroll, and see
other people, and there
is music in the air, and
smells of chocolate and waffles
there’s a Kilwins
or a cousin of such
a shop, selling overpriced
ice cream and fudge.

But it is capital, and
calls to people to
complete their evening
and say to each other
Isn’t this nice!
Summer evenings
with old sidewalks
and older storefronts
The shops ubiquitous as
Main streets in downtowns.

Everyone thinking
this is the life,
as they breath in
the nostalgia of
mainstreet USA,
as we wish it to be,
where everyone feels
alive, and even visitors
feel a part of a community,
if only for an evening.

I hope it rains all day.
Let the world cry
for the mess we are
making of everything.

It should rain all day,
not just here but everywhere.
For sunshine washes
nothing away.

Let it rain all day,
until the seas are filled
until the world is refreshed
and there is something new.

When it rains all day,
we will sleep.
Dreaming we were better
than we really were.

And after this all day rain,
someone will remember
we are as temporary
as these flowers of spring.