The world is filled with meaning;
each breath, step, look,
word, touch, gesture is
filled with meaning.
Every flower, plant, bird,
animal, person is
filled with meaning.
Being alive has a purpose;
the purpose of life is
to live a life of purpose.
Everything has value, purpose;
everyone wants to live, to breathe,
to be free, to learn, to grow, to love;
these simple truths are all that matter.
Life doesn't have to be so complicated;
we're the ones who make it so.
The egos behind the wars and crimes;
while diseases run rampant men,
women and children are killing each other;
such a waste of life, a lack of purpose.
True meaning is lost beneath
pain, suffering, anger, doubt,
fear and revenge.
The things we do because of
pride or passion,
low self-esteem or madness;
to be in power over the powerless;
to have riches yet starve the impoverished.
We argue over who will be saved,
should the world end;
the truth of it is,
we will all live or perish together
under one God or no God;
either all or none of us will be saved
and it's not up to God, it's up to us.
We own our destiny, yet God must
surely cry as much as He laughs
at our feeble attempts to be
worthy of being saved.
Everything we do
is meaningless
unless we are doing
what is right
for all of humanity.
For we will rise or fall together
whether by our own petty differences
or invading aliens from
the next galaxy.
Humanity has lost its purpose;
we search the words of songs,
books, poems and prayers for
The Answer.
Will we find it before
the last pen runs dry,
the last standing tree is
cut down to produce the
last piece of paper and
the last poet has died?
All that was well
eroded in an unearthly obsession
so she lay down one gentle May afternoon
covering herself with tulip petals
and forsythia.
Many red incidents
are not bloody.
There is gold that wilts
like cut flowers a seventh day.
A garden is languishing underground.
The tears of the moon won't fall that far.
Bristling winter flowing time
fading happily into the weeks
blending into beds of naked dirt
simply waiting for today for
the impulse to appear under
gravity's intensive muscle
fearlessly wandering open
minded thriving spring dancing
and revealing moments of the
variations between flowering plants
and awesome weather feeding
the moments together and
feeling the warmth returning
to the sky and in an instant insight
related to the vision unveils the
light in sound at appearances
of trembling atoms lighter than
air that hold the buzzing bee in
time and capture it blossom after
blossom with its serious need
(This poem is dedicated to John J. Moy,
ophthalmologist of Park Ridge, Illinois,
whose skill provided me with a visual rendition
of "new eyes" after cataract surgery.)
bright light gambols each and every way
rainbowed colors bloom as through a prism
crimson lemon emerald French blue violet gray
there is a sudden startled intake of breath
at phantasmagoria revealed
has there been a transformation?
depth flows deeper
outlines sharper
nuances prevail
a leaf at twenty paces
ferns no longer pale
covered bridges stretching
roses shocking red
faces clear as morning
a twisting river bed
gulls are seen above the water
leaping toward the sky
mountains stand triumphant
stars like beacons fly
has there been a transformation?
nothing is lost
choices remain
the future stretches into
a clarified visual plane
This king-size, adjustable, oh-so-comfortable bed.
This shelf after shelf of books, accumulated throughout my life.
This well-built house, scarcely four years old
set in a yard of daffodils and goldfinches.
All these dollar bills, stacked in some bank vault--
actually, all these ones and zeroes stored in a computer memory.
I feel all that grow thin as canvas, thin as muslin, thin as gossamer,
unable to shield me from the realities of the newspaper,
realities beyond the newspaper.
I am like a newborn babe left exposed on a mountain cliff,
helpless and hopeless were it not
for the grace, love, and constant care of God.
I come close to you
Only when I use words of
no real significance.
Even these bundles of noises
uttered repeatedly
again and again.
The moment they emerge
would leave me and you,
and disappear into void.
Traces of them
remain as memories.
Those too fade away - in time.
Alas! Words left us unbound
I go away alone
to become a poet
far away from you
as you refused to watch me sketching
the silent spaces and reflected lights
in the sky
even though I am the same one
whom you liked
when I painted.
The spring flowers and smiling faces.
I travelled too far and
I took too long to reach there.
Mine was a one-way ticket bought
out of life's savings.
It would take another life's earnings
to come back.
We met and
missed each other
once again.
In recognition of our heroes
who have fought and died for us
on foreign soil.
To those of World War I,
which has only been a
history lesson for me,
you fought to make the world
a safer place.
Soldiers of World War II,
I salute.
You fought in other countries,
for a free world.
Korean Veterans, thank you.
for fighting in a war
that is largely forgotten,
unless a loved one fell there.
Men and Women, who served in Viet Nam,
I respect and honor your contribution.
You stayed the course,
even knowing you would be spit on,
and called 'baby killer'
when you returned home.
Thank you for doing the job
you were asked to do.
To those who are serving,
and dying in the middle East,
I send you my prayers.
You are volunteers who have
largely left homes, families
and jobs to be in the midst
of a "Storm."
You are doing the right thing,
despite what the media say.
Serve with honor and dignity,
as did the ones that went before you.
Thank you to all veterans
and our current military men
and women who are serving
with pride, all over the world.
If you were sitting at the round table
with the rest of your quintet
what music would fashion itself
in your mind, reverberate
for the first time in your ears?
Would the drummer open
the egg roll into a cadenza,
the cellist pluck shrimp
from the Szechuan sauce,
the saxophone string out
the bamboo strips,
while your trumpet announces
the red peppers?
Would the pianist give the cookie
fortune a unique interpretation?
(Published in Prairie Light Review,
XXIV:2 (Spring/Summer 2004), p. 40)
Piano like breaking glass
spills across my vitals,
shining glass. I thought I was safe,
here with my coffee. I thought
I was free from memory. No, the notes
crashed across my breast, opened
a long-ago remembrance.
So many high keys; tiny fragments
of glass—and my heart
breaks in pieces because it is
only the size of a vase.
Copyright Notice: Copyrights for all of the above poems remain with the individual authors. No work here is to be reused without permission from its author.
