Thursday, May 13, 2021


Their eyes wander and I wonder
That anything ever gets done
But it somehow does
The petals twirling in the breeze

Wednesday, May 12, 2021


The Stupid God yet prowls about
And works on those who know no doubt
But should not so certain be
Doubt is not something one should flee
But face instead and thus resolve
No rigid shout that problem solves
But steady study and concern
Makes the lamp of wisdom burn
And though the price of fuel is high
As Stupid God draws yet more nigh
The cost of darkness far exceeds
The price of meeting wisdom's needs

Tuesday, May 11, 2021


The seat of knowledge does not admit of leaning back
Even when it is not a hard and backless bench
But it is better to have a bit of cushion
Shielding where many think

Monday, May 10, 2021


Once again the time has come
And the old hitchhiking bum
Has wandered through with his same speech
That it's certain will soon reach
Whom he celebrates today
And I know I'll with him say
Happy birthday to my mom;
We look for another one!

Sunday, May 9, 2021


Not all mothers deserve praise
On this or any other days
But those I know have done quite well
And my regard for them I tell
Them often 'cross the year
And here, again; I hope they hear

Saturday, May 8, 2021


Sturgeon notes nine-tenths of all
Perhaps optimistically
The questions for the remaining part:
All at once or spread around?
At beginning or at end?
And, for the whole:
What divisions to be made?
But recall what fertilizes
And think perhaps the nine make the tenth

Friday, May 7, 2021


Whom my own master studied
Looked long into his mirror and
Practiced looking like others
Caught up less by cares
And we seem to follow that lesson
Both more and less than he
Who left pawned his doubts
And may not have redeemed them

Thursday, May 6, 2021


Do not stalk the fawns of David's son
Prefer instead the full-grown deer
Not least because they are more abundant
Let the quarry grow before the hunt
There is more skill therein

Wednesday, May 5, 2021


Let me pen an ode for you
Trace the stylus that I have across the page
Leaving its liquid long behind
On that smooth weave that sits sometimes in drawers
And for which I often gladly reach
Delighting in its smell no less than in
The feel of it under my fingers
Show to you the love I make for you
In as many lines as you can read
And I can write before I can no longer grip
My pen

Tuesday, May 4, 2021


Many heed the Stupid God's command
And seek to claim for it again the land
Where others, thinking, find they must yet stand
And had had hope that they had slipped the yoke
That, placed upon them, soon did make them choke
As some do celebrate as they provoke
The rising voice and, soon, the rising hand
That seems to be what these events demand
As a response that they will understand
Who think the still-done struggle is a joke
And think themselves but jesters to evoke
Old foolish hate: an egg, and they, the yolk.
Perhaps it is the pan now growing hot
That shows itself as their deservéd lot.