Child's Play

Drink Shannon to the dregs, they will

and spill her on the way;

drunk with surfeit, bare of sense,

living only for the day. 

And the day will come

when the wasted drops

and the billions wasted before

will float away the ancient mop

dingy and dripping behind the door. 

The children will play at the reservoir

piped in by a very big straw --

funny Dublin blowing bubbles (!)

bigger than any you ever saw. 

When the bubbles burst and float away

and there's no more froth to spill,

the children will see that it's Reckoning Day --

but do you think Dublin will?

Dedicated to the River Shannon.

Soulfire

When they stray from sweet music,
no imitation will do: 
Their tempo grows lax,
their demeanor -- chilled through. 
Words full can become
strangely vacant of meaning,
kindness -- a cool form of pity,
misleading. 
When they stray from sweet music,
their passion runs dry,
and youth feels old enough
to die. 
When they stray from sweet music --
never dreaming the cost --
they surrender life tepid
to blazing love's loss. 
 
Music link:  "Nimrod" from Enigma Variations, by Edward Elgar

Hearth

There will be a new day, 

with doumbek to set the pace 

of my heart, 

duduk to soothe and strengthen, 

oud to pluck away 

doubt . . . 

beauty to ignite

hope,

dance in color "magnifique"
to spirit away

gloom,

warming my soul 

until ancient blood 

cascades through my veins, 

current of life 

renewed.

Illumined

Words run ragged

across the page,

candle burning

honey-sweet

beside me,

its flame 

a living witness,

signature of

light. 

May 5, 2012

Wordsmiths' Soiree

You hear me --

you don't? 

Ah, well,

so it rains. 

Words tasted,

words wasted --

no efforts,

no gains. 

We whisper, we shout,

we rhyme, we "prose" --

nuances layered

beyond what shows. 

So wrap your heart warm,

or wrap your heart cool

in words for the wise,

jests for the fool. 

Take your pick, or leave it,

it's all up to you --

evocative verse,

or straight dialogue for two. 

We write, we rest,

words wax, words wane --

shadowy haunt

or bright windowpane. 

You bring self to bear

on the false and the true: 

How will the words fare

when their beholder is you?

Clenched Teeth

Jealousy blots
the soul out of the eyes 
Charade of love
in thin disguise . . . 
Clinging gestures
that won't desist 
Questions, harangues
which perversely persist 
Mere cleverness seeking
to mute wisdom's call 
(Pride goads to omniscience
before the fall) 
No omnipotence, in truth --
only trembling impotence
grandiose and frantic
behind fierce pretense.

The Price

He didn't want to go. 

Her face,

a ghost's shadow

in the windowpane

pouring grief

through the rain . . . 

Should he remain? 

One last look --

his eyes ached --

or did they burn? 

Was fidelity really

too much

to learn?

"Is That What They Told You?"

Well, I am me,

and will still be

after any new news

of my family tree;

and yet, there is something

in that circular path

around and back --

no mysterious math,

but a strengthening of form,

a nurturing of way,

which augments the vision

and deepens the day . . .

the journey full worth

all the sweat it demands

to reclaim one's story,

birth's long-lost lands.

Sensibility, Autistic

Don't tell him not to be

afraid of the rain. 

Don't tell him that it won't

cause him pain. 

It's paining him now,

from ear to ear --

so please don't mistake

acute hearing for fear.