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Poems

Quick Folk

“Quick Folk,” imagines the world as quite small when measured against the size of the universe or when held in the hand of a divine being.   And it says that, although we sometimes contemplate what happens after death, when we hear the ticking of that mortal clock, still we must laugh and love and live our lives well.

The rhyme scheme is aabb.

Adriaen_van_Utrecht-_Vanitas_-_Still_Life_with_Bouquet_and_Skull
Adriaen van Utrecht – Still Life with Bouquet and Skull, c. 1642.

We may all be but beings in spheres of glass
Made to march and tumble as hours pass
While some great Being holds us in mighty hand
Or sets us, like a trinket, upon a cabinet stand
Where we exist like strolling shapes in a snow globe,
Or mobile figurines on a topographic lobe
Where the mountains are like grains of rice
And Antarctica is but a trace of ice—
If we are all but tiny beings in these spheres,
Still have we our hopes and loves and dreams and fears
And as we pass through our short years,
We laugh with joy or cry with tears,
For as the hours wind from the mortal clock
With every quick tick and every quick tock
We wonder what lies past the last frontier
And hold our passing lives more dear.

Categories
Poems

Passion

Passion is a short poem in free verse.

It is a request that passion teach no more hard lessons.  No broken hearts, no scars or scabs, just love.

IMG_7088
Jacaranda blossom, Guadalajara, Mexico.  March 29th, 2019

Passion, amid that fair skulduggery that is Time,
Teach me no more hard lessons;
I need no more legions of tormenting lesions.
Leave me only love—soft as a pheasant,
Enduring as space—until my passing.

Categories
Limericks Poems

Sunday Limericks

the-persistence-of-memory-1931.jpg!Large
Salvador Dalí – The Persistence of Memory

The Golden Bear
There once was a bear made of gold
Who lived amongst the snow and the cold
Each time he stepped the gold shone
Like a king’s royal throne
This rare bear was a fine sight to behold!

The Pious Moralist
There once was a pious moralist
Who condemned even the most virtuous kiss
She screamed at the children who played
And castigated her maid
Now when she dies she’s one no one will miss!

Killing Time
There once was a man with a skill:
Everything he touched he would kill
So when he put his thumb on a clock
It became as dead as a rock
And thus he made Time stand still!

Categories
Poems

Aphorism Poem

My Oxford New American Dictionary defines an aphorism as, “A pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’” This is a poem comprised of aphorisms, some of which already exist but have been reworded, and others which are of my own invention.

St Jerome
Caravaggio – Saint Jerome, 1605-1606

There’s truth in every aphorism
And poetry in those gnomic things:
Like, Time may mend the greatest schism.
And, Chaotic are the ways of kings.

In every mishap, there’s blame to share.
In each home, there’s room to care.
Knowledge is an unquenchable flame.
And, Sarcasm is the crutch of the lame.

Anything can go from bad to worse.
Addiction leaves a lightweight purse.
Every age is made of strange times.
Some men aren’t guilty of their crimes.

Unproveable is faith in the divine.
We oil the wheel that does whine.
All men go inevitably unto death.
Sweetest is the liberated breath.

All those who are poets must be true.
Politicians are wont to misconstrue.
Though in severalty we unite in league.
The true spy makes his own intrigue.

Each maxim among these and many more
Help comprise man’s expressive score.
And although often spoken like a catechism
There’s yet some truth in the aphorism.

Categories
Poems

Mayfly

Mayfly

In the pond, between brown trout and rock dove,
Spawns the short-lived mayfly,
Who, like brief life and yet briefer love,
Exists for a revolution and then does die.

Between the head of the path and its end,
Whether it be hard stone or soft dirt,
Whether it lies straight or climbs and bends,
In life, in love, there is pain, and there is hurt.

We are mayflies, alive for but a brief time,
Inhabitants together of these strange parts;
Why, then, should we give our prime
To anything but what is dearest to our hearts?