The Reason

Let me make this perfectly crystal clear-
the sole and only reason I'm still here,
the main reason that my show isn't done...

I can't afford the bullets or the gun.

This is the only reason I can give
for each breath I take and each day I live.
If fate saw fit to give me half a choice
you wouldn't be listening to this voice.

Instead you'd be reading an empty page,
not another metered musing of rage.
There would be nothing here for you to see
if the ultimate choice were left to me.

But now it's time to stop this rhythmic whine
and go back to pretending life is fine.

Missing

There is no "You and I".
That crawled off long ago
and found a lonely place to die.

Instead there is a "You"
and then there is an "I"...
not together, but separate - not one, but two.

I imagine I should be sad
there should be some sense of loss
some emotion, some hurt, even just feeling bad...

But when I look deep in my heart
there is nothing there - it is empty, cold, and bare.

You can't miss that of which you were never a part.

To Refudiate or Not To Refudiate...

I wrote this many months ago, but decided to post it now.

I normally don't make comments on political figures. My Dad taught me that a gentleman does not discuss his politics, his relationship to his God or the merits of a young lady in public. But when a modern political figure tries to cover a gaffe (Sarah Palin Refudiate tweet) by comparing themselves to William Shakespeare, I have to do something...

So I took the immortal bard's Sonnet Number 18:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

and changed a few things to ask the question if we should compare Sarah to William:

Shall I compare thee to Sarah Palin?

Thou art more liberal and eloquent;
Rough words do make plain her every failing,
And summer's tweets show her demented bent;
Sometimes too hot the lights of Fox news shine,
And often is her intellect questioned;
And every rant shows her so out of line,
Yet by her followers is unquestioned;
But thy eternal prose shall never fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall time deny all that you have made,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
Long after Sarah and I cease to be,
your words shall live on through eternity.

And with that I think I've said all I need to say...

Tired

"How are you," she asked.

And the only thing I could think to say, the only thing that came to mind

... was that I am tired.


I am so tired.

I am tired of people asking me how I am
and never really wanting to know the answer,
the truth that hides behind every "fine" or "OK".

The simple truth that I am, really, tired.

Really, really tired.

I am tired of smiling through a day that is just another collection of pain.

I am tired of keeping to the bright side of the street.

I am tired of being strong, of being brave, of pretending again
that I am not just weeping while standing here pretending life is sweet.

I am tired.  So very, voluminously, vociferously, volcanically tired.

And the worst thing about being so tired is that I cannot sleep.
For if I close my eyes, if I try to get some rest,
if I slip into slumber and start to dream, a dream so deep,
I may miss a chance, The Chance that might be my best -

... to get what I need so that I can stop being tired.

And mostly I'm tired, so tired of ... of being me.

I am so tired I do not even know who I would be if I should stop being tired.

Everything about me is so warped, so wrecked, so wrong from being so tired for so long.

Would I even know me should I stop being tired?



"How are you," she said.

And I said I was fine.
I lied, because lying to people that don't want to hear the truth is easier.

It saves the explanations.

It stoppers the uncomfortable silences,
the pretending, the pitying, the posturing that people perform
when they really don't want to know.

I am so tired that I'll say what they expect to hear
instead of what I really should say, the real way
that I am.  How I really am. These conventions that we hold dear,
all the inane, insane, insincere, infantile intimations we say...

… really don’t mean a thing.  Nothing.

They are empty words -
OK.
Fine.

And I am still tired.

I’d curl up and lay my head down
and try to shut my eyes.
But I am so tired
I can't even find the ground when I fall down.

The Best of Me

I know I'm not the man I used to be,
but I think what's left is the best of me.
What you see here, standing right before you,
has been tested and tempered and found true.

Gone, the illusions of a wasted youth
replaced by an understanding that truth
is a malleable and living thing
that changes with every catch that chance brings.

I no longer tilt at every windmill
or try to cure the world of every ill.
Now I chose each battle and when I'll fight
for all those things my heart tells me are right.

No longer am I a wandering boy
turning over stones to try and find joy.
Now instead I am a confident man,
making his world the very best he can.

The Name of Eve

I find it very hard to believe
that all this sin is the fault of Eve.
Plagues and pestilence and death and war -
should these really be laid at her door?


So when we lie and cheat and decieve
why is Eve the one that should recieve
the scorn and hate and all of the blame
for what is really our deepest shame?


Isn't it time that we moved beyond
all the hate that this fable has spawned?
Shouldn't we make an effort to relieve
the stain we've placed on the name of Eve?

The Moments

The moments between the minutes are the hardest.

Those silences between the seconds where the clock doesn't tick,

those are the times when doubt whispers to me.

Those thoughts that thwart my serenity

inhabit the instants between supposing and surety

that fill every random corner of my brain.

Doubt is always standing right behind me,

mumbling maledictions, murmurring madness that

serve to disquiet any moment of delight 

I might try to take from this life.

The Cherry Blossoms

In the back yard there's an old cherry tree.
Its trunk is cracked and some branches withered
and when you look it is easy to see
every storm and winter it has weathered.

In years gone by it would fill with flowers,
bright white blossoms that weighed its branches down.
When the blooms fell from those leafy towers
they'd cover the ground like some young bride's gown.

But now the tree fights to wake from the cold,
each bud that blooms taking longer to grow.
Every spring not as fruitful or as bold
but still the tree tries to put on its show.

There's an old cherry tree in our back yard
that flowers even when its life is hard.

That Which You Seek

No night has ever been so long
it was not followed by a dawn.
Never was darkness so complete
that the sun did not force retreat.

No winter ever dared to stay
to see the flowers bloom in May.
No flood has ever had the cheek
to wash the highest mountain's peak.

So whatever now may be wrong
accept it will not be for long.
What now tastes bitter will be sweet
and what's undone will be complete.

Even the lost can find their way
and find the path to end the day.
Do not let your resolve be weak!
and you will find that which you seek.

A Spring Haiku

The cherry blossoms
as they fly through the warm air
are snowflakes for Spring

Life Among the Ruins

Is there any life among the ruins
green shoots amid the clutter and decay?
Is there anything now remaining in
the verdant fields where I used to play?

I remember when the sun shone so bright
on every warm and wondrous summer day.
Now there's not a single sunbeam in sight
just a rubbed out sky filled with clouds of gray.

The front porch where I'd sit and play my games
is littered with leaves like some lost bouquet.
The doors hang crookedly on twisted frames,
the wind shakes the walls as they twist and sway.

And who'd want to rebuild this wasted wreck?
Who would pick up the stones from where they lay?
Who could find any hope, even just a speck,
among the ruins, clutter and decay?

The Rewards of Age

In life it is inevitable
that we grow from child to wizened sage
and while youth may be enviable
the best things are those that show their age.

Worn shoes are the most comfortable.
The best wines are of a certain age.
Our old friends are the most affable
and good books improve with every page.

So enjoy your youth while you're able
and as you get older do not rage.
While the years are unavoidable
you're only old if you act your age.