Category: Poetry

Long ago in a galaxy far away…
A whole future has happened before our day.

What could be known was already discovered…
A time when the end of all of it hovered.

Somehow, each ending’s also a beginning…
Whether evolving or stubbornly winning.

So, that magic future where faults were repaired…
It is a memory man hasn’t yet shared.

One day a finale will come for us too…
With time, we can learn & our faults will be few.

Father Time must have himself a great cackle at clocks.
Absurd men who thought they’d caged him with their ticking locks.

Mother Nature must weep from laughing at landscaping.
Their flowered sod pasted on her wounded flesh gaping.

Father Christmas must chortle at his season’s cold greed.
All gluttony & wanting; with rarely a met need.

The long since heroes must be roaring over our wars.
None spared, none gained & recorded in casualty scores.

That truly skinny man with a blade & a pale horse.
He laughed first, still laughs & will have the last one…of course.

“That’s Life.” Death said with a rictus grin.
He scooped me up & folded me in.

“I was busy back there!” I harrumphed.
“I was only a little bit stumped!”

“You’ve won!” he said calmly through his pearls.
“Something richer than all of the Earls.”

“So what!? I was still building my life!”
“I’ve overcome so much toil & strife!”

“Now you’re rewarded for such good work.”
If Death had lips, he’d’ve had a smirk.

I pivot & say, “I did my best.”
Death said, scythe swinging, “Now, you can rest.”

Maybe Persephone liked bad boys; or just had bad taste in men.
Maybe the seasons were her choice & not some original sin.

Maybe she was raped & stolen; just as mythology has said.
Maybe she just didn’t exist & men greeted seasons in dread.

Maybe she did seal her fate with six pomegranate seeds eaten.
Maybe she was eager to breakfast with roguish Death unbeaten.

Maybe true she was tricked by the insidious guile of Hades.
Maybe she is just one more wronged among mythology’s ladies.

Maybe myths are best left for education & entertainment.
Maybe making stories real, unbinds them from page’s containment.

Spend regular moments in reflection.
Silence golden helps with course correction. 

In dark is found your minds’ eyes projection.
Peruse your paths in every direction.

Contemplate first at each intersection.
Take the time to consider connection. 

Meditate to embrace imperfection.
See body & soul; merge their bisection.

View life as experience collection.
There’s no rehearsing or resurrection.

Fight, if you must, over your imaginary friends…the ones with great book sales?
But do us a favor, if you will, do stop believing when whichever side fails.

This “I am right & you are wrong” over intangible myths & dogma dusty.
Crumbled papyrus from more primitive times to the modern nose comes off musty.

Then there is prayer, if it works for you…great; just don’t forget there’s science proven.
If you are sick, hold both schools in your head & see which has more room to improve in.

If belief gives you hope, then its purpose is served; belief, faith & hope are the hooks.
Yet, all three exist on their own without gods…so why must we spill blood for old books?

If peace & paradise on Earth are your goals, then abandon your lines in the sand.
Have faith in your neighbors, believe in folks; give the milk of human kindness a hand.

Seems like all we do is fight by the moon & daylight.

Seems all we’ve done is pray for imaginary sway.

Seems like most of wars fought are to rewrite common thought.

Seems we justify death to control our reach’s breadth.

Seems like we’ll never evolve since fictions have no solve.

He dines on blossoms & ruts in the wood.
Naked as birth but for greenery’s hood.

He is the scion of the Holly King.
Tasked by the nymphs with ushering in Spring.

Green clover carpets grow where his hooves trod.
All saps rise for his risqué wink & nod.

He plays a flute made from his father’s rib.
He draws fur & feather from Winter’s crib.

His name is Prince Jack; he brings in the green.
His works are afoot…but he’s rarely seen.

Here we go; we’re doing this.
Just a frail unlikely kiss.

Neither one of us compelled.
Just a wish to once be held.

Now is all we can manage.
Just a rest…without baggage.

It’s enough to lend you trust.
Just a moment lost in lust.

We part ways & both look back.
Just a lovely heart attack.

Again, it’s a drive more than a maintenance call.
It is urging me on towards strange feelings in thrall.

Somewhat ticklish, like an itch at the back of your mind.
Scratching seems impossible for that spot where you’ve pined.

So, distraction is the order that’ll save the day.
Dig in to a list of to-dos as time whiles away.

The ache dies down while idle hands have been labor booked.
But…one second of silence & the lure’s firmly hooked.

The gears shift up & something proactive must be done.
In deed, the reeds must be tended; the nagging has won.