On snacking

When I was young, my meals were square;
The same old stuff for daily fare,
At breakfast, lunch, the dinner meal,
I ate it all without much zeal.

The menu banned all in-betweens,
Just meats and starch and healthy greens.
Snacks might ruin the family's health;
We ate them only with great stealth.

My youthful days are over now,
I graze the fridge for tasty chow.
Left-over pizza hits the spot;
Ice cream for breakfast? Hell, why not?

On time

I learnt to measure time, and how to mourn its haste,
Its fluid passage sure, escaping my embrace.
But that was years ago, and now I have the task
To see if time is real, behind its cryptic mask.

Time waxes, wanes; it swells and shrinks our interlude.
We clutch at time and wonder, shorn of certitude;
We search for confirmations, truths we can defend,
As meretricious time eludes us at the end.

On a quiet day

It was quiet in America a thousand years ago,
On an average day, so still, you could hear the flowers grow.
The only sounds occurring by the woods or by the sea
Were the daily sounds of nature, singing out in harmony.

On the ground, or in the air, it hardly mattered which,
The silence was astonishing, its texture was so rich.
The forest sounds included those of deer and mountain lion;
With luck, when they were still, you might hear the soft breeze sighing.

The eastern natives had long-houses, built with sturdy trees,
They wielded home-made axes to erect their homes with ease.
In silence women tilled the fields, soft-treading men sought deer;
Each summer's menu featured fish, caught in a rustic weir.

The world you navigate today reverberates with sound,
From screeching brakes and honking horns, your ears are being drowned.
A million voices try to shout above the traffic's scream,
While quiet seems a precious prize you yearned for in a dream.

No way has been discovered to return us to the past;
You wouldn't be the first to hope, nor would you be the last.
But every now and then, it's good to leave the telephone,
To take a walk in silence, and enjoy its quiet tone.

On remembering the sixties

Way back in nineteen sixty-three,
Our nation sang a threnody
For John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

In April we heard gunshots ring
When James Earl Ray killed Dr. King;
That gave us one more dirge to sing.

In June, Jack's brother's murder sent
Us reason for a third lament;
He died running for president.

Lest we forget, we should deplore
Our thousands killed in pointless war
That any sane man would abhor.

Time's passage dulled the heavy load,
But Nine-Eleven's evil showed
New horrors rushing down the road.

Each decade takes its bitter pill
When old ways fail to cure the ill
Of man's psychotic need to kill.

We spout commandments, practice none,
Claim we'll make peace, our war games done;
Yet nothing's new beneath the sun.

No, nothing's new beneath the sun.

On Mona Lisa's smile

Deft Leonardo, for a space,
Was unsure how he'd paint her face.
Her knowing smile, he understood,
Might interfere where least it should.

Her half-smile had a history,
Its origin a mystery;
What answers could he postulate
To give her smile proper weight?

What was that self-indulgent look,
What clever plans filled up her book,
What treats did Mona Lisa seek,
What did her cryptic gaze bespeak?

If Leonardo were to tell,
If he explained his ideas well,
We still would fail to get or find
The source of what was on her mind.

On an old photo

At first, the image looks awry,
The antique clothes, the rigid way
They posed and caught the camera's eye;
Self-conscious, on that special day.

A stern look on grandfather's face;
Grandmother trying not to laugh,
The children, bored, yet in their place,
Afraid to make the slightest gaff.

They're all long gone, but you can see
Their vivid, sweet humanity.

On old age

There's nothing wrong with being old,
It comes to all; that truth's worth gold.
The young think that the old are done,
And should depart, their races run.

Our lives are chapters in a book,
And each one's worth a careful look.
Sit down and have a cup of tea,
Enjoy the tale's simplicity.

The young get old, the old were young,
Two facts on which the story's hung;
No need to grumble, or to fear
The fable's end, or shed a tear.