Deadline
No dead lines:
Rather, dots in motion.
With limited sight,
lines look straight,
but over time,
they curve
around and
complete a circle.
On reaching the point
of origin,
a nascent dot
is born
from the motion
of the prior,
and traces
then enlarges
the underlying
spiral.
The Food Value of Snow
Who needs canteens when
Nature provides
Spirals of white
To soften prickly holly
And sing the pines to dream.
Fresh-fallen flakes
Gather heavily on leaves
Gloved hands partake
Of ephemeral bounty
An instant on the tongue,
And water turns to gold.
Optimism
Is the spark of joy
the same spark as creativity, or is it different?
Are they siblings?
Cousins?
Friends?
Or are they strangers who pass each other with tentative glances
before looking away, mutually embarrassed?
Is joy necessary to creation
as love is to procreation?
Or can creative spark?
arise as a reaction
to oppression
or depression,
longings
compressed like nothings
into mind-quarks
that fuse, react,
then fire in rebellion,
in self-preservation?
In either case,
hope is the spark
whether fueled by joy, despair,
or some middling shade of gray.
Try to dissect hope,
and it slips away;
analysis
leads to annihilation.
But let it burn,
let it grow.
Spark of hope,
light in darkness,
triumph of mind
and powerful heart:
doggedly climbing obstacles
grip by grip,
hold by hold,
step by step
because there is no other choice:
Optimism.
Change
How futile to fear change
Leaves have no fear
Blazing in glorious color
Even as they die
For they know but one season
One cycle
One half-pirouette
Around the sun.
How much luckier are we
Who know many seasons
Many cycles
And full pirouettes
Around the sun.
Spiderweb
One a hike, I found
A spiderweb that spanned a mountain trail:
A silken artwork
In whose middle
Lay a bundle, securely wrapped.
Am I the meal within, or am I the hungry spider?
Shall I eat or be eaten?
Or is it neither?
Maybe I’m the web.
(Hey, that’s a sticky thought.)
Could creativity await,
Spun up in gossamer threads,
To be sipped on, then sucked dry?
No, it’s all
And none of these,
(Or any...)
It’s my choice.
I’m the spider and the bundle and the web,
And I must keep faith
That I have more than one
Tidbit tucked inside
To partake without fear.
But what if it’s the only one I see,
In silver strands that glint in golden sunshine?
Perhaps, besides its fragile beauty,
That’s part of why I ducked
Underneath
As I hiked on down the trail.
Links to Poems on my Blog:
