Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Just yesterday, I started school

Just yesterday, I started school,
And learned the use of every rule;
High school and college whizzed on past,
A pleasant blur that went too fast.

Then I got married one fine day,
Had kids to raise, and bills to pay,
Resigned myself to the commutes,
To profit from each day's pursuits.

Then one day, it became quite clear;
Much time had passed, year after year;
Tomorrow wasn't far away...
And I just started... yesterday.

There's nothing wrong with being old

There's nothing wrong with being old,
It comes to all, if truth be told.
The young think that the old are done,
And should stay home, their races run.

Our lives are chapters in a book,
And each one's worth a second look,
The pages full of joy and strife,
Both aspects of a busy life.

The young grow old, the old were young,
A fact on which the story's hung;
No use to grumble or to fear
The story's end, when bedtime's near.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

The world renews itself each year

The world swings through vast changes every year,
From winter's blast to springtime's green foretaste
Of fertile summer's passionate career,
Then fall, and back to winter's cold embrace.
The planet spins, and whirls around the sun,
A dust mote flying in a plangent sky
Filled up with stars and galaxies beyond
The limitations of the mortal eye.
Slow time, a coruscating stream, that swells
And ebbs, oblivious to man's estate,
Uncaring, fills reality's deep wells,
And, conspiring with chance, ignores our fate.
First good, then evil, gain supremacy,
As waves of change roll on eternally.

Monday, July 22, 2013

Writing poetry

The poem is sparked by a phrase, half-heard on television,
An image, song, or memory I barely can envision;
I pour a cup of coffee, and immediately forget it;
Other things are on my mind, and I will never let it
Be said that I'd ignore important chores I have today,
By fiddling with a wispy thought, or express it in a way
Requiring a scrap of paper, and a pen, but I write it down
Before it fades and loses color, texture, weight, and sound.

The day goes by quite pleasantly, I've hardly given thought
To whether I should write at all; how a picture might be caught
To crystalize the niggling something  that I feel, and then
It rushes right on back to me, and I retrieve my pen,
Begin my writing earnestly, and focus on the mood
Of what I want to seize, and limn its attitude.
The hours fly, I concentrate on rhythm, rhyme and stress;
At first I choose words carelessly, but try to pick the best.

At last, the poem is finished, and it seems to be complete;
I walk away and let it age; I know from past defeat
That time will make me change my mind, frustrating what I seek;
The perfect word or artful phrase, which nuances to tweak.
Because perceptions change, the poem will never satisfy;
Ten years from now, or twenty, something wrong will catch my eye,
And make me choose new words and rhymes to change my verse.
How I write my poems is both a blessing, and a curse.

Monday, July 15, 2013

The book of life

The time has come to turn a page.
The book of our reality
Demands it at a certain age;
It's just a technicality.

The story started long ago,
With high and low points on the way,
Some chapters fast, some chapters slow;
It still goes on, and that's okay.

Attention matters most of all;
The plot's a mystic, tangled text,
Its twists and turns too hard to call.
Just turn a page, and see what's next.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

We sipped sweet coffee, buttered toast, and planned a quiet day

We sipped sweet coffee, buttered toast, and planned a quiet day,
While New York rubbed her bleary eyes and tucked away her dreams.
Washington Square's trees were frolicking in summer green,
On a morning long ago, when we were young.

On Fifth Avenue, we watched last night pack her bags and leave,
As shadows melted fast before the rising of the sun;
New York, awake, rolled out of bed, stood up and stretched her arms,
On a morning long ago, when we were young.

We talked and talked and window-shopped on our way to Central Park,
Till time went slow, and slower still, our purpose soon forgotten;
Instead, we laughed, held hands and kissed, and dawdled as we strolled,
On a morning long ago, when we were young.