Somebody, long ago named today Tuesday,
and so it remains, someone owns such a legacy,
for it had to have a name,
it couldn’t just be named Thomas,
or something like an ordinary random name,
and we must name things,
and then the world revolves around such things.

What made Tuesday different from Monday? or Wednesday?
… and how do we know we’ve kept track correctly
since the beginning of calendar-week time-keeping?
Could this really be Thursday as it was intended, and somewhere along the way someone slept through some random two days?Maybe not in a row but over a millenia, is this not possible?

Well if we can agree to call this Tuesday, then why is it so hard to agree to so many other things in this crazy world?
We are a strange race of semi-intelligent creatures,
it is good we have something like naming to provide
order to the chaos of our time.

…. I know the day is Sunday I’m publishing this…. or is it really??

For the grace of routine
gives our minds a rest
providing life momentum.

Without it life would be
overrun by everything,
everywhere all at once.

Further it allows us to be
astonished, when touched
by something beautiful and new.

And for a moment we may
stop momentum, and breath in
the extraordinary.

I thought I’d ask an AI application to write a poem about playing catch… Chat GP.T..  this is what it came up with in 20 seconds… freaking amazing:

Playing Catch

Two hands outstretched, a ball between
The thrill of playing catch, a timeless scene
A game of back and forth, a simple pleasure
In the midst of life’s hustle and bustle, a moment of leisure

The sound of the ball hitting leather
The wind in your hair, feeling freer and better
The joy in your heart as you make a perfect catch
A moment of triumph, nothing can match

The rhythm of the game, a dance of sorts
A language unspoken, but understood in all sports
A bond between players, a shared connection
A moment of unity, a moment of perfection

And as the sun sets and the game comes to an end
The memories made will forever transcend
For in playing catch, we learn about life
The ups and downs, the joy and strife

So take a ball, find a friend
And play catch until the very end
For in this game, we find so much more
Than just throwing and catching, it’s the memories we adore.

A dolphin swimming along side
turning to look at us curiously
as we are looking back, within each
other’s world and beyond each
other’s world.

Understanding intelligence as
we witness it, in the way we look
at one another, the way we consider
the other’s world and yet we fail
understanding one another’s world.

And so we look at each other
across a great divide we’ve built
across our world, a wall of
indifference built by ignorance,
fear and for the benefit of those
who benefit in the divide.

We lack the simple curiosity
to wonder what it must be like
to live in a world more evenly
shared in love and respect
of each other’s needs and
for the benefit of all.

Like birds flying together
one ahead, one behind
then they switch in perfect
cooperation and easy
coordination.

Going somewhere, maybe
or just going nowhere,
it doesn’t matter.
There’s grace and joy
learned or practiced?

Catch a game with no
winner, just cooperation.
Learned as parent plays
with child, fumbling through
to the joy of achievement.

Through the years, an
extended handshake as
toss and catch of ball
or disc is a game of
skill and cooperation.

Playing catch with grace,
forever as friends, as
extension of social
contracts and simple joy
of something done well.

Everyone a winner!

I woke at the usual time
I’m very regular this way.
But the clock said it was
later.  For some reason,
us humans have to tell
nature what time it is.

To be sure, the concept is
vital in rendezvouses
of two or more to a place,
for trains, and planes,
or the theater or school’s
start and joyful end.

It is brilliant actually,
for we are a social
species, and yet so
to are herds, flocks, pods,
and tribes and troops,
cooperating as they must.

But just to prove our human
cleverness, we adjust time
to reflect our planet’s tilt
during its journey around
the Sun, for afterall, we are
stunningly anal this way…

While fooling only ourselves.

There’s scaffolding constructed
to create the facade of our temple,
the establishment of our legend.
Making our hovel, something
elaborate, decorous and protected.

Constructed with words and
stories, and categories,  I am,
I’ve done, in my time, and place, 
to display and disguise as the
case may be… our very selves.

To fit our simple lives into a
legend we may want to read
about, to fit words and time
construct, and memories
we built brick by brick.

If we are lucky, we do not
brick-over windows so we
have light, and air to breathe.
As we try to remember just
what we had hoped to build.

Sometimes there’s nothing
but the birds singing to the sunrise.
Sometimes there’s nothing
but the hum of machinery in distance.
Sometimes there are no words
to fill the space between the margins.
Sometimes there are no words
for festooning of ideas floating by and by.
Sometimes there are no ideas
which present themselves in a lyrical way.
Sometimes there’s no idea
how this time in quiet is so fleeting.
Sometimes it’s good, just then
to remember how fortunate we are.

Shave a little here,
a little less right there.
Save money and give
them something they
think they want, there’s
so many of them, there’s
so much profit to be made…
they will never know.

But Mother Earth is watching.
Thinking what fools they must be.
What short profits can make of me.
For when I shake my hips as I do,
they will be made to pay and it will
be unfair and ugly and I will leave
a scar unto you, for you
failed to respect me.

And the sirens will wail as the
walls come crashing in,
and the heroes will rush to save
those who can be saved, and those
who can’t will pay the price of
profit’s greed, and it will not be fair,
it will never be fair, for how could
it be anything but a tragedy.

As Mother Earth straightens the
wrinkles of her dress, spinning
to her own music, with no sorrow,
no remorse, for she is who she is,
compellingly beautiful and often
deadly, and she will be respected,
she will keep her own counsel
on when and how, and where
she will be heard!

Crazy or normal is the stated choice
but which is which is untold and
left for us to decide….

Are conspiracies and grievances
and anti-wokeness,  of which
we don’t really understand
normal?

Is governance in the interest of the
people, giving help to those who
need it, and ensuring fair share of
costs crazy?

If so, then, Sarah just call me Crazy!!