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.

At night the tiger moves
quiet, restless, no place to go
except here, among the nameless
rivers of time, among the
trees and grasses of the world-
of-words not yet found, searching
for the nameless experience,
the scent of prey undefined
the touch of the sand damp
where the water was just tasted
the experience of just now,
no future, no past, for it
knows not those words, just
the night, it is quiet,
and in silence it waits for
answers to unasked questions.

A quiet sunny afternoon with nothing better to do
than to go fishing in our pond with rod, reel and lure.
To cast and reel, and snag grasses green floating along
with nothing much on my mind, just humming a love song.
The sun flashing off the pond’s ripples from a light breeze,
not caring if the sport succeeds, just being outside, at ease.
When one of the few fish willing to play finally hits my line,
its small and after a moment of fight, it’s over and he’s mine.
There he lies, a tiny thing, with dark eyes, dark green, hook in lip.
He shows no sign of distress as he gives in, no longer trying to flip
and slip back into the water, it just surrenders itself to me,
and now it is me who’s on the hook, for I must set it free.
But the hook is set well, and my eyes are not quite as clear
as they once were, and this hook is stubborn and I now fear
I will kill this partner-in-sport of mine, as I struggle with haste
to free the hook, realizing I’m now vested with this fish’s fate.
Finally, I succeed, releasing him hurriedly, he swims quickly away
into green murky waters so we may play again some sunny day.

It’s communing with the great outdoors, sunshine and fresh air!

It’s pollen and sneezing, only if it’s not raining!

It’s some great exercise, gets you moving!

Yeah, I’ll grant this, especially with a cart, a beer and a cigar!

It’s a drive down the middle, and easy iron to the green in regulation!

In such an unlikely event, it is an ugly lip-out on the third putt for a double bogey!

It’s civilized, you keep your own score, and when the unfortunate occurs you penalize yourself!

Then why do the pencils have erasers?

You just need some new clubs and maybe lessons!

And a thousand dollars later I’ll be no better than I am now!

The best golf lesson is simple!  Just think Lower!

What do you mean Lower – lower my hands?

No your expectations!

Change comes to one and to all
with or without plans, often
imposed by a sudden fall.

Suddenness matters most
as the butter-side hits the
floor of your juggled toast.

For the disaster, or so it seems
does impinge upon your
breakfast-perfect dreams.

It could be worse, you finally observe,
as it was prior to applying the last of the jam,
a fortune you may hardly deserve.

And so you adapt to life’s re-arranges
and the morning will dawn anew, while
you find lovely breakfast-option changes.

… for change comes to one and all.

Migrating in great chevron formations, birds
flying North speak of the coming summer in
destinations grounded in collective memories.
What of hope or home, or future are they aware?
What do they say to the ones who never leave?

Are we not on the move too, if not in fact, but
In our hearts and minds of exploration
and in the vessels of the words read and heard?

But to where and to what purpose do we go, and
what do we say to the ones who never leave?

When lightning delivers its wicked blow
and the wisps of acidic burn informs the birds
the deer, the squirrels, of danger they know.

They flee as best they can, they run and fly
for they know reality doesn’t bend for them
and the destruction of fire is not for them to deny.

And yet we, in an age of thunder and lightning
don’t turn from the stench of the devil’s burn,
we’d rather marvel in the rareness of the sighting.

We adopt corruption, ugliness, pain and death
into our view of the world, and grow accustomed
to the devil’s darkly demonized view of Earth.

Better than the wooded animals and birds, it is we
who think we can look away when life’s reality doesn’t
fit the model of who we believe we all should be.

Millions remain delusional, accepting denied reality and never
seeing that the darkness, the acidic burn is not outside
but rather inside of us, for the devil is wicked and clever.

And we are too weak to accept that the forest is really burning!

A precarious thing, just a little more
here, a little less there, and it is no more.
The scales of justices is felt by the blind
measure of truth, which is carefully weighed
yet a little more or less here and there, and
justice is lost to the truth.

The earth, the moon, the sun in rhythm
keeps us in this precarious place where
life thrives as the seas and land
in concert with our spin keeps the
whole thing on the tip of a pin until
a little more or less here or there
brings the world crashing down.

Toddlers learn the precariousness of
gravity and motion instinctively, and
will eventually challenge it in a blind
spin, with a donkey’s tail or pinata stick,
and once again, will learn of its delicate
nature in future days of later times,
when dependence on much more
is the reward of long life.

And we all will undoubtedly find
the precariousness of her fickle nature
in the balancing of our anxieties, hopes
and dreams, our successes and our failures
we will need the help of others here and there,
to maintain life’s momentum and balance,
for without such we fail into nothingness.