REVERENCE

                       Earth’s evolution has arrived at us,
                       The most sophisticated species yet;
                       However, also the most ominous,
                       Though not so sapient as we may get,
                       And in that prospect lies our highest hope,
                       An aptitude we’re best to cultivate
                       For, as things are, we’re on a slippery slope
                       And  sliding toward a catastrophic fate.
                       The time is neigh to take our greatest stride,
                       Not to the Moon or any far-off place,
                       But toward an attitude that must abide:
                            The miracle of our existence here
                            Implies a Sacredness we must revere.

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WHY

                 How wonderful that on this Earth appeared
                 Organic matter from which we evolved,
                 Clear evidence the process has been steered,
                 Though by a mystery we have not solved.
                 Good Orderly Direction we call God
                 Has bought our sapient species into being,
                 Originating from a clump of sod,
                 Developing to consciousness far seeing.
                 And yet, for all we know, we still are blind,
                 Despite the power of our sciences,
                 To how and why this universal mind
                 Created us—just why all being is,
                      Though we’ve been taught by wisdom from above
                      Our purpose here is learning how to love.

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ON SONNETRY

                    The reason that I choose the sonnet’s form
                    With all its stringent boundaries and demands
                    Is that the challenge makes ideas swarm,
                    Sending my mind to unexpected lands,
                    And such adventures are a joy to take
                    Each leading to a fresh discovery
                    That without challenge I might never make,
                    Yielding an artifact for all to see.
                    And while free verse may have grand things to say,
                    A sonnet is composed as well to sing,
                    Calling for a melodic kind of play
                    As only such a skipping verse can bring.
                         In fourteen lines of five iambic beats
                         Great masters have achieved immortal feats.

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WISDOM

                     What is the greatest wisdom one could gain,
                     The most profound and powerful insight
                     That would the deepest mysteries explain
                     And ease the burdens of our mortal plight?

                     I think it would be knowing we’ll survive
                     What looks like the finality of death
                     And will in some eternal heaven thrive
                     While only of our suffering bereft.

                    Yet knowing this for sure might rob from life
                    The animus that drives us to explore
                    The mysteries with which the Earth is rife,
                    Created by a Source we should adore.

                         Perhaps our wisest stance is just to wait
                         And let the sacred Source reveal our fate.

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THE LESSON OF EASTER

                    The Christian myth is one inspiring love
                    And sacrifice, the Way that Jesus taught,
                    His spirit figured as a holy dove,
                    The source of all the miracles he wrought.
                    To be as gentle and as succoring,
                     A healer of our moral illnesses
                     And over all our wayward nations king
                     While rectifying souls to make them His,
                     Was His intent, His message to mankind,
                     While we in turn would recognize His right
                     To rule us from what naturally inclined
                     Us to trespass and put our souls in plight:
                         So, Easter is the day we recognize
                         His sacrifice to teach us to be wise.

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THE SONNET

                  There is a kind of magic in this form,
                  Which Shakespeare had adopted early on,
                  That causes unconsidered thoughts to swarm,
                   A practice that served well sweet Avon’s Swan.
                  Though unlike him I’ll never graduate
                  To greater enterprises or write plays,
                  I’ll be well satisfied just to create
                  A book of little songs worthy of praise.
                  Yet even if they don’t achieve acclaim,
                  My daily musing is no waste of time,
                  For, at the least, it is a kind of game,
                  A stimulating quest for the right rhyme,
                      Which if well done, then goes on my web page
                      A place less lustrous that the Bard’s Globe stage.

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MUSING

                    I’d not be writing verses were it not
                    For Transcendental Meditation that
                    Once taught me how to sit still in one spot
                    And learn to make my mental habitat
                    Serene, in which all agitations are resolved,
                    A practice that brought blissful benefits,
                    But out of that, another has evolved
                    That leads me now to sharpening my wits.
                     Instead of zoning out, I’m tuning in,
                     Not murmuring a mantra, zombie-like,
                     But summoning my Muse, intent to win—
                     Feeling a bolt of inspiration strike,
                          And now I have a double benefit:
                          A concentrated mind and sharpened wit.

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WIDEWING







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AUBADE

                    The birds are singing, tweeting, twittering
                    Not only for the morn but for the spring,
                    Their aubades blithe with the exuberance
                    This season brings, and hymns of joy commence.

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PUPPY LOVE

                    What is a puppy for, unless to be
                    Adored?  A little furry cuddlekins
                    To scoop up from the floor, put on your knee
                    Or snuggle with—­unlike a pet with fins.

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HANDICRAFTS

                  When I was just a boy, I used to weave
                  Potholders out of stretchy colored strings
                  Hooked on a metal frame to which they’d cleave
                  While my mind idly thought of other things.
                  What strikes me now, as I compose this verse
                  Of measured lines stretched out across the page,
                  Is what I’d done back then was to rehearse
                  How to make patterns in a kind of cage
                  As I do now, but in a verbal way
                 To fabricate a woven artifact
                 By doing work that seems like play,
                 Yet with a joy that mere potholders lacked.
                      Weaving pentameters across the page
                      Now takes that craft to an exalted stage.

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THE NEIGHBORHOOD

                    Small houses in our neighborhood are razed,
                    The rubble hauled away, the plots made flat
                    And shortly afterwards we’re all amazed
                    At the erection of a habitat
                    Fit for nobility or a tycoon:
                    Our neighborhood is being mansionized
                    And it’s predictable that very soon
                    The whole community will be up-sized.
                    And then, no doubt, a gated wall will keep
                    The riff-raff out, so ponds and lakes
                    Once public then are but a distant peep,
                    A property preserved for moguls’ sakes.
                        Instead of being invaded by rude hordes,
                        We’ll be supplanted by these upstart lords.

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SOURCE VI

for Wayne Dyer

                Call it Good Orderly Direction or
                Say God, the Source from which we all arise,
                Whom rightly we pay tribute and adore
                For all that it so lovingly supplies.

               Failing to recognize or rightly praise
               And draw upon the virtues of this Source
               Will leave one with wayward and fruitless days
               Filled with a sense of failure and remorse.

               Amazement is the right place to begin,
               Astonishment at what Creation’s made:
               This universe of galaxies we’re in
               That’s birthed our Earth, with consciousness arrayed.

                   To think we have an intellect inspired
                   By Source prompts us to ask: “What’s now required?”

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AUTHENTIC LIFE

                       As far as heaven goes, and afterlife,
                       I’ll simply have to wait and see—or not;
                       Although our sacred literature is rife
                       With declarations of our future lot,

                       It could be wishful thinking, fairy tales
                       Our fearfulness compels us to believe
                       When hope of staying here no more avails,
                       So to a desperate fantasy we cleave.

                      My best recourse then is to focus on
                      The best that I can make of my time here
                      So it is colorful, not pale and wan,
                      Bravely alive, not overcast with fear.

                         If there’s an afterlife, then let it be
                         After a life of authenticity.

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TRANSCENDENTAL MEDITATION

                  “Sha-dray, Sha-dray, Sha-dray, Sha-dray, Sha-dray,”
                  So went my TM mantra every day,
                  For twenty minutes first thing in the morn
                  And then again at eve, or be forlorn
                  For having broken faith with my routine
                  Designed to scour my harried conscience clean
                  Restoring me to blessed tranquility,
                  Re-centered in a blissful ecstasy.

                  Yet I’ve long since abandoned that routine
                  Replacing it with one that makes me keen
                  Instead of calm, though when I’m done—delight;
                  It’s what I’m doing now: I sit and write
                  And slowly watch some mystery unfold,
                  Then find that I’ve a sonnet to behold.

 

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RIPPLE

                   A little squirrel named Ripple skibbled o’er
                   The dew-damp lawn, chasing after nuts
                   That Kimmie’d flung, and hoping she’d throw more,
                   For his whole tribe were hustling their butts
                   And nabbing peanuts left and right to stuff
                   Into their bulging cheeks before their climb
                   Back to their nests, hoping they had enough
                   To feed their young, all chittering by this time.
                   Then after Ripple and his tribe ascended,
                   Down swooped the chirping birds to take their turn,
                   Leaving their chicks just briefly unattended
                   But feeding them their paramount concern,
                        And so their day begins in our back yard
                        Where getting a good breakfast isn’t hard.

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GOD IS GOODNESS

                    Imagine this: a God beyond the sky
                    Who guides and guards us humans here below,
                   Just as from in our cradles, looking high,
                   We saw a smiling parent who’d bestow
                   The nourishment and succor we desired,
                   Protecting us from terrors and from harm,
                   Providing us with all that we required,
                   Relieving us of every care and qualm.
                   Is God but this—a childhood fantasy
                   Extrapolated from our memories
                   Diverting us from whom we ought to be:
                   The source of our responsibilities?
                        Yes, God is human good personified,
                        Which it’s our highest mission to provide.

 

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CULTIVATING THE SPIRIT

                    To cultivate your spirit and enhance
                     Your inner life, it’s needful to reflect
                     Upon that vast, mysterious expanse
                     We call our soul, a secret to inspect:

                    What is this essence of our consciousness,
                    That quality which shapes us as we are,
                    The origin of values we profess,
                    Whose health it is our charge to make or mar?

                   Our heart is more than just our body’s core,
                   And seems to be as well our spirit’s seat,
                   Which we may spend a lifetime to explore,
                   A project, though, that few of us complete.

                        Which leads us to believe and hope and yearn
                        We’ll have another chance—and shall return.

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SOUNDSCAPES

                  While various birds are twittering away
                  In our backyard, one squirrel begins to bray,
                  Perhaps because a cat has come too near
                  And fills the local populace with fear.
                  Some houses down the road, a large dog barks
                  Continuing so long nobody harks.
                  Now early planes descend toward our airport,
                  With passengers booked in to some resort
                  Like Disney World or Sea World or a beach
                  Hotel a rental car will quickly reach.
                  But now our dogs, their tasty breakfast done,
                  Are telling me they’re overdue for fun,
                  For their perambulation of our streets
                  Where they’ll sniff out some savory roadside treats.

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WATER WALKERS

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LAKE SUE FLOTILLA

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OUTED

                            “A good lie’s better than the truth”
                            Is an assumption of some youth,
                            A way to dodge the consequence
                            Of their erroneous events,
                            But almost always, beyond doubt,
                            The deed’s revealed and truth will out,
                            And hopefully a lesson’s learned,
                            For otherwise they’ll be twice burned.

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FOREST HILLS

                  Our neighborhood is changing rapidly
                  As modest old frame houses are torn down,
                  Lots leveled, cleared of every bush and tree
                  To be a crenelated mansion’s ground.

                 The nouveau riche have found our ponds and lakes,
                  Our rolling hills and streets of ancient brick
                  A setting that the best impression makes,
                  Especially if one’s a former hick.

                  At least we have no crenelated walls
                  To keep the hoi poloi from coming through,
                  And plenty of old trees from which bird calls
                  impartially delight both me and you.

                      And our Lake Sue is open to all sorts
                      As kind with kind delightfully consorts.

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SERENDIPITY

                 To write a sonnet, Serendipity
                 Is the true Muse to piously invoke
                 For meter to match matter properly
                 And travel easily under one yoke.

                 You cannot know ahead when you start out
                 Where the exigencies of beat and rhyme
                 Will ultimately show what it’s about
                 As it emerges from the deep Sublime;

                 Therefore, to write a sonnet is to play
                  A game of hazards, hoping for good luck
                  And that from all our language’s array
                  Of rhymes, we’ll have the skillfulness to pluck

                       Exactly what we need for the right place
                       To make the sonnet end with style and grace.

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STREET TREATS

                    Our nosegator Gyp inhales the news
                    As on our daily walks she scours the streets;
                    While Tig and I are mainly after views,
                    Our Gypsy’s hunting savory, crunchy treats—
                    Bones of chicken legs that workers toss
                    From their truck windows into curbside leaves,
                    Now mingled with the fallen Spanish moss:
                    This surely is the worst of my pet peeves,
                    For suddenly I hear a crack and crunch
                    When Gyp, who’s snuffling curbside debris,
                    Exhumes a bone and nabs it for her lunch,
                    Defying me to try to pry it free,
                         Which, now and then, I’m lucky to have done,
                         Risking a bite, but mainly Gypsy’s won.

 

BELIEVURE

                    Believure is behavior driven by
                    Convictions, not by well-established facts
                    And rational proceedings wherein lie
                    Assurance of the rightness of our acts.

                    Believeure is the cause of many errors
                    And some with catastrophic consequence
                    Affecting often innocent wayfarers,
                    The victims of wayward experiments.

                   The proper way is to let science rule,
                   Proceeding cautiously by reason’s guides;
                   Irrational belief will lead a fool
                   To where his fantasy with truth collides.

                       Belief may serve when truth cannot be known,
                       But you’ll be living in a twilight zone.

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MIGRATION

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LIFE

                    Oh, yes, I have no doubt there’s life out there
                    Through the far reaches of the galaxy;
                    I grant, apt circumstances would be rare,
                    But think: we’re looking at infinity.

                   Or if not literally, then extend the view
                   To the whole cosmos—galaxies galore:
                   What brought us into being can’t be new
                   And must have happened elsewhere long before.

                  It’s simply the impossibility
                  Of probing into distances so vast,
                  Extending toward infinity,
                  That leaves our curiosity aghast.

                      Our duty though’s to tend to life right here,
                      Too precious to allow to disappear.

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SKYSCAPE

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SANITY

                    Though all of us are human, being humane’s
                    A state we conscientiously attain
                    By showing love and choosing to refrain
                    From actions our commandments don’t ordain,
                    From all that is self-serving, loveless, vain
                    And likely to cause others woe and pain:
                    Our human quest is to remove the stain
                    Of sin and truly demonstrate we’re sane.

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TAKE CARE

                    Oh, is it not amazing that we’re here—
                    That human life and consciousness emerged
                    From stardust and this planet’s atmosphere
                    By some mysterious designer urged?
                    There is a Force, a Source, Intelligence
                    Defining and directing this whole course,
                    A universal architect immense
                    Whom we have every reason to endorse,
                    And doing so, we may the more align
                   Ourselves with what is latent in the plan
                   And work to realize the grand design
                   And full potential of our species—Man.
                        No mindless randomness could have made us,
                        Though without care, our future’s ominous.

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