poem

Kaleidoscope

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Selfish is the radiance-hoarder,

Unbounded bouncing element resonates,

Through the sphere of the sunshine recorder,

Upon its crux the particle detonates.

Lucid luminescence has primal appeal,

In a world of constant flux,

Like an old zoetrope, spinning like a pinwheel,

Unfettered, unfocused, a coliseum of lux.

A balance must be struck between the two reciprocals,

A cavalcade of color that leaves an impression,

A spectral speckle spectacle; a rainbow flicker-festival,

A kaleidoscope held up to your eye for another session.

On Emptiness

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A shadow is present because of its absence,

Isn’t that inside-out?

Yet empty space is where one finds all existence,

We are always within without,

Nothing to write home about.

Who’s there?

Who cares?

We fit into these impressions,

Despite asking those questions.

Records get scratches,

Locks have latches,

All that matters is mass and volume,

You wouldn’t be there if there was no room,

And you wouldn’t be you if you were naught.

Human Behavior

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With each additional option,

We see liberation,

But practice caution.

Each consequence with direct causation,

On the results of the action-auction.

Personal persuasion,

Is a zero-sum game,

A perfectly balanced equation.

There is no evasion,

Protesting makes you more tame,

Each strike leaves an abrasion.

Like sipping fine wine from a Klein stein,

That leads you astray, away, aside,

Where you reside on the incline,

And slide back inside.

Here and Now

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When you pass time, and things have passed you by-

You hesitate to say that “time flies.”

When you look up, it’s the same sky,

then one moment it’s February, the next it’s July,

then summer’s almost over,

then the leaves have died.

Sit when you sit, run when you run,

Think not of snow when standing in the sun,

fear no sharks when you swim in the ocean,

and don’t hit the brakes if you’re looking for momentum.

The world whirls at its own pace, and does not mask this,

in this we are hapless.

Like it or not, it spins on its axis,

and you are not Atlas.

Make the best of this game of chess,

It takes finesse not to obsess,

It makes a mess to regress-

When you compress your experience,

you end up with less.

Small Things

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The periwinkle patina on a past-it’s-prime pretty penny that smells of pungent pecuniary petrichor,

The swing-set that squeaks and squeals due to shear-force in the sanguine summer schoolyard,

The oscillating fan that is ostensibly an orbiting oasis in the warm weather,

The trills and triads the trickle plays when traipsing through its trapeze act to tap on a rock face.

These are minutiae, minute moments made of monuments to each momentous minute.

In the Sunroom

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I hear them outside, and this I know

The windows show a light-grey glow.

The yard was drizzle-dusted in a dancing, daylight daze,

Yet the sun’s rays poked through the rainy day’s haze.

The robins ranted and babbled by the crabapples,

While they foraged amongst the twigs and gravel.

I hear them now, while I stand in the sun room-

And I know that in time, all will come to bloom.

The wind whips and whisks the wisps,

Casting out cloudy skies

and spreading a crisp, brisk mist,

This too I know is true,

When I stand in the sunroom.