And how could I not?
When the sun is so hot
and the moon so cold
and the earth so old
and we are so young
here in our time, among
each other, to share this life
on the sharp-edge of a knife,
in a world of climate-brittle
where it seems so very little
we can do, but to live
fully and share and give
love, as we all pray for that
rabbit to be pulled from a hat.

Yes, I believe in magic

For I’ve seen chains unchained
and yet those lives unchanged.
I’ve seen failures redeemed
by luck, and then the esteemed
recipient be hailed as a hero
even if mad as the fiddler Nero.
And thus, a neat trick of fortune
creates a sort of wicked torsion
on the crowd-thinking masses
and they believe this luck passes
for magic, or divine intercession
leading to red-hatted accession
like the woman sawed-in-two
magically rejoined for all of you.

Do you believe in magic?

Summer cold gets in the way
of my thoughts, and what to say,
with the coughing and rattling
deep in my chest causing addling
of my mind and loss of the rhyme
when it comes to this next line
and freaking thoughts won’t hold
on this poem, nor a brain fold
which used to work well, before
a summer cold came to my door.

Old men hanging on to the past
trying to make glory and fame last.
Phantom ideas, words hard to find
confusion and retribution in mind.
Grievances and fears are being sold
along with tennis shoes of gilded gold.
Stumbling remnants of poisoned populism;
in debate sounded like a bad case of botulism.
We know about the stories and lies
we know of corporate greed and ties
of influence money ugly and dark
of dangers presently near and stark.
And so here’s the choice,  Hell No
versus sad alternative of Oh No!

God Help Us!

This very simple poem by Anis Nin (1903 – 1977) contains much complexity about the risk of change in order to blossom into our most beautiful selves.

Risk

Of all the occupations I’ve known
and titles important I’ve owned
none have given me as great a pleasure
nor made me worry if I would measure
to the example my own father has given
and thus be worthy of this title, I’ve striven!

Happy Dad’s Day to all of you who understand
the measure! 

I look out on green-blue seas
with unlimited possibilities.
Almost all of it unknowable, hidden
and awaiting a future forbidden
to be seen, but it will always find you
and surprise you with something new.

For we a product of the past,
the ice flows which didn’t last
the evolution of life, love, friends
will determine where infinity begins
and the fullness of life ends for we
are part of this green-blue sea.

This week I watched a documentary about J. R. R. Tolkien (Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and more) and Lewis Carroll (The Chronicles of Narnia and much more) and the essence of myth, imagination, and faith from a dinner meeting hosted by Hugo Dyson they had in September 1931…. and so it occurred to me that…

We are interesting creatures
for we, as the word suggests, are
a product of creation, and yet
we also create.

We use the words and observations
permitted by our creator to
discover truths we not just
deduce but also feel.

We, as sub-creators, can represent
these truths in art, poetry, mythology,
fed by god-inspired imagination
as creative art.

It is with a leap of faith that we
suppress our cynical, rational
selves to imagine stories,
music, art and more.

And in so doing, we may
worship our creator
through faith to imagination
to sub-create in this world.

Indeed, we are infinitely
interesting creatures… and
Tolkien, and Lewis were some
of the most interesting of all of us.

… and created some most interesting creatures
which really represented the nature of us all!

A man of few words
may be a dam holding
back a roaring flood.

If there be one thing
to say, then say it
simply.

If there be a thousand
things to say, then
think instead,

of a single sentence
punctuated with quiet
which speaks like a roar.

Flying free, sharing the wind
with the birds of the sky,
experiencing updrafts and
downdrafts, responses always
a bit late and often overplayed
until the kite of youthfulness
is caught by the tree of life
so to become part of new
life experience, and the branches
binding it to its place, resist
persistent coaxing from
below, and the string will be lost,
the connection severed
and paper and sticks become
once again a part of the tree
from whence it came, and
from where it will later
inspire future fanciful flights,
of youth, playing in the sky
as a part of life’s great circle.