20161011.0626

That the work continues should be clear,
For it does so without let throughout the year
Despite the cost imposed on those most dear
To have it going on, to forward press.
The work in some sense seeks e'er to address
The leavings of the Stupid God, a mess
Made by inattention to the speech
Flowing freely from the mouths of each
Of us who do and those of us who teach
By saying once again what we have heard
Without the deeper knowledge disinterred
Through labor of the mind. We have incurred
A debt therefore to those who after follow.
The work will help make promises less hollow.

20161010.0605

Although it is a holiday,
One honoring a lie,
I am still at work today;
It's easy to see why.
I have papers to assess
And writing still to do.
I took the weekend off; a mess
Upon my desk soon grew.
Awaiting me are readings yet
In print and on the screen;
I must turn to them to get
Done all that I mean
To do to move to other things
That I might celebrate.
At least today, if a bell rings,
I know I am not late.

20161009.1134

The weekend has been going well
For me, though it seems straight to hell
Are many swiftly being dragged
By Stupid God who has them bagged--
If hell is lack of knowledge and
Of wisdom. Then, a mighty band
Has entered in through open mouth,
Towards nadir bound from north and south,
A sinking feeling taking all
Even as they think a ball
Surrounds them in merry delight.
Such is the Stupid God's long night.

20161008.0824

My little girl is singing in the shower.
Her young voice is lifted up in joy.
I smile in joy to hear her talents flower,
Though I confess the blooms sometimes annoy.
But as I look at reports of the world,
Not works of nature so much as devotees'
Of the Stupid God that are unfurled
As a banner marking ends to thinking pleas,
My smile fades. My daughter's stays in place;
She does not know what is or what may come
Save that she is loved, that on her face,
Such tears as may are swept by thumb
Aside. All I can do my daughter to preserve
From the Stupid God, she well deserves.

20161006.0619

Yesterday, a student wrote
Poetry is for those who cannot write
Writing verse is lazy writing
It makes the reader work too hard for meaning
Or words to that effect
I did not respond

Yesterday, a student said
You can die for your faith; I will not
I want to see one sect's preachers
Kill themselves as they bid others do
Or words to that effect
I did not respond

At least not as I ought

Yesterday, I told myself
That I would keep on working to be kind
That I would not do as I've done
That I would strive to be liked where I am
Or words to that effect
I know not the response

20161005.0605

I seem to have been stuck on sonnets
As I write where the bluebonnets
Grow on limestone hills of oak
And cedar. I have borne the yoke
Of rhyming many five-foot lines
Of iambs, embedding in them signs
That I have some deeper meaning--
Or, at least, cane make the seeming
Of doing so for a short while.
I have added to the pile
Of such poems grown o'er the years--
Hopefully, I've not caused tears.

20161004.0609

There are a few things that I have to do
Today if I am going to be paid;
I need the money that I will earn through
My efforts: making lesson, marking grade.
I'll have to read; I'll have to write. And then
I'll read some more. The work is never done;
One stack of papers just gets marked 'bout when
Another comes, and from the grading one
Or two points into lessons go to aid
The students as they move ahead and learn--
Those who want more than a simple grade
That they see helps their potential to earn.
Of such students, there are all too few;
It is for them, though, I do what I do.

20161003.0604

Today, I woke up feeling like a fool,
Recalling all the errors I have made,
And there are many. I have been a tool
Of Stupid God; I've been adroitly played
By the foul divine embodiment
Of that against which I have long arrayed
My skills and all my efforts. I have meant
To do better than I have, to no avail.
At memories of having so much spent
As I have of effort, things, I quail.
I focus, shout down failures in my mind,
Yet they flood in despite how much I bail.
In pressing forward, I may solace find,
Or so I hope, and that this day be kind.

20161002.1321

What time of day it is, it matters not,
For, so long as I have not words sought
To put in place as I well know I ought,
I am called the fault to rectify.
Now it is to do so that I try,
To put fair words in measure before eye,
And perhaps on my own skills improve
By stretching, changing how each line can move
And grouping words outside accustomed grooves.
When what is known well is but slightly changed,
The result may be seen as sad deranged,
But perhaps that opinion is exchanged
For a different view upon more thought--
In second looks are many lessons taught.

20161001.0810

Summer seems now gone away from here.
The weather cools; the air grows fresh again,
Unbound by humid heat that through the year
Draws many outside efforts to an end.
Hill Country heat of summertime I love;
That I stand strong on oak and cedar hills
Allows me to me my own strength to prove--
Although the need to prove promotes some ills.
But autumn coming now does fill the air
Less with pumpkin spice than with a word
Unspoken yet attended to with care
And valued greatly by those who it heard.
Listen; the voice of fall is speaking yet,
Bidding coming to broad table set.