Mellow Drama

Little things mean a lot,

Especially when they happen,

But sometimes it means more,

When they don’t.

The taste,

Of the empty space,

Where the once-whole,

Chocolate ice-cream scoop was.

The faint, jolting pangs of pain,

You feel,

A few seconds after,

The impact,

Of your pinky toe,

With a table leg.

When you find out,

That anticipated plans,

Made four days in advance,

To do nothing at all,

Are cancelled now.

You don’t live in fear,

Of good things gone bad,

Normally,

Because it should be no big deal,

Until it’s nothing at all,

Then it is.

Extremophiles

Bacteria

stuck to the side

of a hydrothermal vent

metabolizing,

with black smoke,

rising,

or encased,

in ancient salt crystals,

photosynthesizing.

Processing cyanide

or sulfur

to grow,

then split.

Residing,

where it’s corrosive,

with high temperatures,

and/or

intense pressure,

dissolved metals,

minerals,

or chemicals.

Found,

in massive, arid, vacuous deserts,

the bottom of the arctic,

or gaps inside boulders,

or the vacuum of space.

Extremes are not insurmountable

just because they are not conducive

to life.

It’s full of proverbial surprises

after all.

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I Hope You Find What You’re Looking for

The aperture

of a telescope

cannot get

cataracts,

but it can be scratched,

through carelessness,

or callousness.

When you don’t need it,

it collapses

like a bashful brass,

Matryoshka.

The mount

will need to be screwed on,

swiveled,

tilted,

and tightened.

The eyepiece

will fatigue

if you strain,

but that’s only if

you spend too much time searching

and not enough time

finding.

There’s no rewinding,

If you missed Saturn’s rings

because you blinked,

or a lunar eclipse,

because you happened to drift.

So whatever it is you’re looking for

I hope you find it,

because it comes down to timing sometimes,

even with the right tools,

even when you know what you’re looking for,

even when you think you’ve found it.

Means to an End

What stands today simply cannot stay-

And there is no way to delay, to hold at bay,

It will all sway, grey and flay,

Forests filled with life, are also forests of decay.

The oak that falls crushes what is underneath,

In a massive faltering apogee,

It opens up the canopy,

And gloriously atrophies.

We run the same race at different rates,

And have different faces, yet the same fate.

“The end is a conclusion,”

That seems to be a delusion,

The end is an illusion,

Or an allusion,

There is some confusion.