Something About Trees

There’s something reassuring about trees.
Look up at the branches—
Always eloquent,
Always inching forward,
Reaching for the light.
Think of the innumerable lives that trees harbor
And nourish;
The winters they pass through,
Naked.
Trees endure
More successfully than ourselves,
Though they eat only air
And drink only water.

They were home to our earliest ancestors.
Later, villagers constructed huts from them,
Traders hammered out boats,
Pioneers built cabins,
Furniture, fences—
Trees still smell of home.

There’s something reassuring about trees.
They call children to play,
As children must;
They call old folks to reflect,
As old folks should.
They encourage everything
To find its proper place
And breathe.
They leave room for others.
They even purify our air.
Like the sun and the rain,
Trees refrain from judgment.
You can trust a tree.

There’s something reassuring about trees:
Deep in the infested city,
Humanizing the concrete,
Calming the populace;
Their movements too slow to perceive.
A tree will never sneak up on you,
And you can never sneak up on a tree—
Nothing surprises them!
Yet they catch us off-guard,
Releasing bold new colors every fashion season.

There’s something reassuring about trees.
They are never agitated.
Angels might go to war, but not trees.
No matter how often we strike them,
They never hold grudges—
As far as we know.

What kind of tree would you be?
Any kind.

Sugar, Tobacco and Cotton

The streets of the spa town are wide
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Gentlefolk amble outside
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Carriages rolling along
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Everyone sings the same song
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Buildings in regency style
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Stroll in the gardens awhile
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Though it all seems so carefree
Something in Denmark is rotten
What brought these riches we see?
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Bursting right out of each purse
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Two of the three are a curse
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Look how we’re flourishing now
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Don’t ever stop to ask how
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Under the lash works a team
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Never taste Devonshire cream
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Sweltering out in the field
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
What will their suffering yield?
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

A baby is born with blue eyes
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Nobody shows much surprise
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
So many siblings for play
So many babes misbegotten
What causes all their dismay?
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Portugal, England and Spain
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Amsterdam joins the refrain
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Baltimore, Nantes and Bordeaux
What has us all so besotten?
See how they come and they go
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

This is the reason you’re born
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Early to work in the morn
Sugar, tobacco and cotton
Many souls noble and proud
Why have their names been forgotten?
Everyone say it out loud:
Sugar, tobacco and cotton

Why?

Persistence is not justification;
Therefore, survival counts for nothing,
And reproduction also counts for nothing,
Contributes nothing,
But only begs the question:
Why?
What is a meaningful life?
What is thriving?

The answer is simple, but not logical:
Connection—
Positive, shared experience.
The reality of us alone,
Of me and you,
Of good will
Is solid.

A smile,
A nod,
A wave,
A bow—
Sparks of recognition
That ricochet from heart to heart
Are the cherries that top off our days.

Connection is not reducible to meaning,
But rather gives meaning meaning.
Why live? Because it’s worthwhile;
Why is it worthwhile? Connection. Belonging.

You can’t deduce it,
But you can feel it in your marrow,
As a certainty,
Because believing this really does make it true.

English has no serviceable synonym
For that unwieldy word, worthwhileness;
Yet, it is what we seek,
And that quest is seeded in every cell,
In the DNA,
Of which our consciousness
Is the flower.

Some More of My Limericks

I once knew a man who was poor
Who used to sell dogs door to door.
If you asked, "Is this legal?"
He would slip you a beagle,
Saying, "Gift for your wife – say no more!"


There is nothing amiss in a nude
When her form’s art historically viewed
In a Klimt or Picasso,
But in clubs in El Paso,
There's a form of a miss we’d exclude.


The teacher of Andrew McKay
Said, “Boy, there’s a spot in your eye!
The doctor, no doubt,
Must dig the thing out,”
Which made that poor spot start to cry.
“To the office,” she yelled, “You must fly,”
To which Andrew was bound to comply,
But pretty nurse Finkle
Said, “It’s only a twinkle,
And you’ll lose it, alas, by and by.”


There once was a glass of red wine
That mused, "Must all mortal men dine?
When we’re finally smashed,
Are our hopes simply dashed?
Are we raised again in the divine?"


A lover lamenting cruel fate
Once leapt from the Empire State
Due to heartless young Pam,
Who did not give a damn,
Though her brothers both thought it was great.

Backwards in High Heels

I might seem quite well-adapted
To the people that I meet,
A respectable consumer
You could pass on any street;
But just check beneath the surface
And you’ll see that something’s lacking:
I am walking over breaking ice
And all I hear is cracking.
I have terrible misgivings
That this smile of mine conceals:
I feel just like Ginger Rogers
Dancing backwards in high heels.

I’ve been working for a living
Ever since I was sixteen,
Toiling one way or another,
Though the fruits I’ve not much seen;
Like a monkey on a palm tree,
Like a hamster in a cage,
Like the drone in some loud beehive,
I’ve been robbed at every stage.
When they come to take the census,
I shall hint at how it feels,
When I list my occupation:
“Dancing backwards in high heels.”

They are liquored up in Congress,
Doped to death in Beverly Hills;
If it isn’t the Jack Daniels
Then it’s certainly the pills;
When they’re backed into a corner
And their options always stink,
Then it’s really not surprising
People turn to drugs and drink;
No one’s staying on the wagon
When it’s always losing wheels,
But it’s hard when you’re not sober—
Dancing backwards in high heels.

We’re all seeking a way forward,
We’re all looking for the light,
We’re all pulling up our bootstraps,
We’re all working through the night,
We’re all trying to be better,
Watching courses, buying books,
But we’ve found out that perfection’s
Not as simple as it looks,
And this thing called self-improvement
Isn’t worth a bag of eels—
“Seven Ways to Be Effective
Dancing Backwards in High Heels.”

We are laboring on life’s treadmill,
Trudging every day that comes,
But the people in high places
Are convinced we’re simply bums
That they have to micromanage
Like bacteria or slime,
Just in case we might embezzle
A few minutes of their time,
So, we entertain them daily
Like blasé performing seals,
Catching any fish they’ll throw us,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

I think most people are honest
To a moderate degree,
With some paragons of virtue
(I refer to you and me!),
But there’s no one’s road that’s easy,
Be they virtuous or foul,
Which is why the rich and mighty
Seem so predisposed to scowl;
Even New York’s greatest gangster
Can’t keep everything he steals,
It’s too hard to get those books straight,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

There are people in big houses,
There are people in small shacks,
There are those who watch portfolios,
And those who watch their backs;
There is heartbreak in high places,
Trouble on the factory floor:
We are all in this together,
Be we wealthy, be we poor.
Though Dame Fortune’s got a lot of cards,
There’s just one hand that she deals:
Everybody’s Ginger Rogers,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

John the Baptist kept his nose clean
In the desert far from town
And he tried to warn the people
What he thought was going down;
He avoided all temptation,
Be it money, sex, or meat,
And he preached purification
With no shoes upon his feet;
But they chopped his head off anyway,
The book of Mark reveals,
For a showgirl named Salome,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

Now, I’ve made my lamentation
On the state of human woe,
And I ought to take it further,
But wherever would I go?
There’s no deus ex machina,
There’s no justice in the land,
And if one thing’s not transparent
It’s that famous unseen Hand;
But my case would never make it
To the Court of Last Appeals:
No, you don’t get compensation,
Dancing backwards in high heels.

I’ve conceived a celebration
When they lay me to my rest,
And it gives me satisfaction
Just to contemplate this jest:
I’ll have Dixies’ fastest jazz band
To provide a sense of cheer,
And then sixteen milk-white horses
Bringing barrels full of beer,
Forty circus clowns in costume,
Prancing wild high-stepping reels,
Six strong men to bear my coffin—
Dancing backwards in high heels.

It Will Make the Game Harder

It will make the game harder:
Dealing fair and square,
Making sure nobody gets hurt,
Or left behind,
Keeping your commitments,
And leaving vengeance to the law
For those who evade theirs.

It will make the game harder:
Making kindness your default,
Prioritizing the good of the whole world,
Now and in the future;
Treating everyone with respect,
Listening to them,
Helping them—
Sharing your good fortune.

It will make the game harder.
It’s no path to riches,
Just the only way to keep your triumphs pure,
Your joy whole,
So that you can look in the mirror
With a happy heart while you live
And die contentedly too.

It will make the game harder,
Not easier,
But it will make your life bigger, better,
Your satisfaction more profound.
If you want that,
You have no choice.
It will make the game harder,
But it’s the only way to win.

Blue-Blue-Blue Day (A Song for Spring)

This morning, I’m feeling quite frisky
Maybe I’ll skip that first whiskey
Then again, no, that’s too risky
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Surely, I’ve never felt fitter
A-flitter with twitter and glitter
Feeling each neurotransmitter
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Something in nature is calling
Even the worms are enthralling
Possums don’t look so appalling
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Each cooling breeze, every sparrow
Thrills me right down to the marrow
Why has my mind been so narrow?
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

I know that this ecstasy’s treason
To all of the dictates of reason
But Spring is one hell of a season
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

The sun’s such a succulent orange
Time for sunbathing and more, in-
-gesting an ice cream or four
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Somehow my heart is ascending
All of my traumas are mending
Who needs a cynical ending?
In love with this blue-blue-blue day

Mourning Has Broken

You will die,
Really die;
Not go to heaven,
Or transmigrate,
Or watch, or haunt,
Or even sleep in peace,
But only die,
Like a burst bubble,
A forgotten song,
Flushed toilet paper.

This is your gospel,
Your Good News,
Because if you can digest this one thing,
Death,
Once and for all,
You can be free.

Right here,
Where you are,
In spite of Death:
The rain continues to fall,
The breeze continues to blow;
The Sun warms,
The ice melts.
Couples row on the river;
Children play in the sun;
The laughing lady kneads her dough;
A dog pees against a favorite tree;
Church bells chime;
Colors riot.

Everything has its limits;
Everything has an end;
Death is simply the wall
That surrounds our little garden:
Why stare at the wall
When there is a garden?

We are the rowers;
We are the children;
We are the laughing lady,
The dog, and the tree;
We are the sun and rain;
And when Death takes us,
Being all these things,
We remain.

Stand still.
Be silent.
Watch,
Listen,
And be this world,
This world that doesn’t have you in it,
Because you are already
Dead—
Contentedly dead.

More of My Limericks

A charming romantic named Bing
Sought to fly like a bird on the wing,
So he climbed up a steeple,
Which scared all the people,
So they caged him and taught him to sing.


Feeling dizzy, lightheaded and faint?
Then you're either in love or you ain't.
If your heart's not aglow,
To a doctor please go,
For you must have some lesser complaint.


A solipsist aired his contention
To peers at a recent convention.
He cried, “It’s quite clear
That you’re really not here,
But you bastards just don’t pay attention.”


A rather disgruntled young Viking
Found plunder was not to his liking:
When they yelled, “All ashore”
He just threw down his oar
And announced, “I’m not striking, I’m striking”


We think seventy virgins a must
When it comes to rewarding the Just,
But that neighbor we shun
Says it’s seventy-one—
What a shocking example of lust!


There was a collector named Otto,
Who bought an expensive Giotto,
Which he hung on his wall
And would point out to all,
Saying, “Don’t go to auctions when blotto.”

The Thing

Make a new relationship
With the Thing
That hurts you most.

You have three choices:
Destroy it,
Get away from it,
Or endure it as cheerfully as circumstances allow.

If the Thing can neither be removed nor escaped,
It must be managed:
Give it boundaries
In space and time—
Know where your safe spaces are.
Don’t let the Thing go everywhere that you go.

If the Thing cannot be confined in space and time,
Set boundaries within your mind—
Mental oases from which the Thing cannot drink.
Though your life is hard now,
Life is always good for somebody somewhere,
And that is a blessing for everybody everywhere.

But don’t blame yourself for the Thing:
You never wanted the Thing,
Why should you be blamed for it?

The Thing burrows deep within your mind,
Beavering its three-dimensional labyrinth.
The meal it seeks is your essence,
Your dignity—
This, you can never let it feed on.
Stay one step ahead:
Create a new dimension in your thought,
One its claws cannot penetrate.

Make a new relationship
With the Thing that hurts you most:
Be its Master.

Maturity

She tries to live her life beyond reproof
And never act from turpitude or spite,
But angry rains still pound upon her roof
And voices still accuse her in the night.
She offers up her reasons, not contrition,
As if her good intentions could purport
To strike out self-judged failure and omission,
But still she feels she’s fallen somehow short
When, buttressing her conscience's complaints,
The triumphs and ripe fruits that might have been,
Fill out a better life her mind’s eye paints
In colors bright as day upon its screen.
She turns though, lets them fade into a haze,
And treasures her full belly and warm days.

I Am the Rain

I am the rain;
I am everywhere
And all I do is fall;
I fall on your hair,
I roll down your cheeks,
I get into your eyes
And mingle with your tears;
You feel my icy fingers against your sides.

There is no escape;
You cannot turn away from me,
But you can turn toward me,
And when you do turn toward me,
And accept me,
The miracle occurs. . .

I become water,
Pure, refreshing water.
I enter your blood,
I replenish your heart,
I nourish you,
I sustain you.

I am water.
I am everywhere,
And all I do is lift you up.
You are feather-light;
You are sailing;
And, wherever you sail,
The rain that falls down on you
Is the water that lifts you up.
I hold you; you are safe.

But, remember that the Tao is impartial,
So you must never fight me:
Those who do are drowned,
Swallowed up by their own power.
And do not take me for granted,
For I would become solid ice:
I would crack you.
I do not know my own strength.
Don’t make me be hard
When it is my nature to be soft,
Accommodating.

I am the rain;
I am the ice;
But let me be water;
Let me be everywhere always water.
Do not perish on that cold, rain-swept sea.

The Laughter of Children

The pot of joy bubbles over,
Unconsciously:
Children laughter.
Nothing surpasses it.

Delight is always within our reach.
We know that,
But not deeply enough,
Not to the bone.
Otherwise, we would fight our way back there.

The pressure that we create for ourselves
Keeps us miserable—
The very thing we don’t want.
What incompetence!

To step back seems easy,
Like waking from a nightmare,
But these grown-up habits,
Clouds that feed on their own blackness,
Leave us smothered,
Impotent,
Unable to reach what is well within our grasp;
Only very bad habits indeed can do that
Because without joy what do we have?
What is this force that fixes our backs to the wall?
An illusion of thought,
Which only thought’s unraveling can extinguish.

Slow down the merry-go-round, bring it to a halt,
Then step backwards, into childhood, into sanity.
We can awaken ourselves from dreams,
Why not from thoughts?

More of My Limericks

If you’re lacking a little good cheer,
Go and tickle a bull in the rear,
For I’m sure that the rumor
That they’ve no sense of humor
Is a product of ignorant fear.


Aloof types are never the sweetest.
It’s clear that avoiding them’s meetest,
So give them the snub,
And apply for my club:
We’re exclusively anti-elitist.


A native of Chalamazug
Once fell overboard from a tug.
He cried, “Ding-dong boller
Doo jango zong zoller,”
Which means, “Glug-glug glug glug-glug glug.”


Speaking anthropocentrically, I
Would prefer that we not search the sky
For quick-witted ETs,
Who’d subdue us with ease,
Till we know what they like in their pie.


See the Moon in the sky as it waxes;
Feel the warm tranquil wind that relaxes;
Turn and give me your smile
On our Paradise Isle;
Say you love your avoider of taxes.


The CAPTCHA's the name for the box
That you have to fill in to outfox
Those machines that send spam
That is linked to some scam
That would swindle you down to your socks.

Ode to Time

Oh Time,
It is not that you are an enemy
But that we have rejected you,
Refused to work within your confines
Of growth and decay,
Life and death—
Parameters that even you cannot alter.
We have been wedded to you,
But we have not been sensible;
We have insisted that you change,
You, who cannot change.
We ourselves should have changed,
As we secretly know we could have done,
Since there is no divorcing you:
It is you who divorce us all in the end,
Leaving for your future consorts
Unimaginable marvels
To be relished in our absence,
The absence even of our memory.
Perhaps they will accept you as you are.
Otherwise, that wondrous future
Will be just like today:
Love and loss,
Fear and loathing,
Happy face, sad face.

Our naked ancestors hunted shells along the seashore
In the cold drizzle,
Longing for the warmth of evening fire,
Where they huddled together,
Before slipping into sublime sleep,
Just like we do,
But with less drama,
For they were more at peace with you,
Oh Time.

Come, let us begin again!
No, we are too old now.
Find somebody new,
Oh Time.

I Said Goodbye to God

I said goodbye to God one day
Because I couldn’t see
Why one who seemed so full of words
Would never talk with me.
“Well, He knows where I am,” I mused,
“And if there comes a day
He’ll condescend to seek me out,
I can’t be far away.”

I said goodbye to God because
I’d finally concluded
That those who claimed to teach His ways
Were guileful or deluded:
What use is praying to a God
Who hides behind a curtain?
And how do you grow close to one
Whose feelings are uncertain?

I said goodbye to God without
Resentment in my heart;
I hadn’t any notion of
How long we’d be apart.
It seemed that there was just too much
About Him left to know;
I said goodbye to God and yet
I thought someday He’d show.

I said goodbye to God and now
My words I shall not mince:
I said goodbye to God and, no,
I haven’t heard back since.
I stroll along my merry road
And seldomly look back:
I said goodbye to God and that’s
One less load on my back.

Dust to Dust

Dust!
We have to keep on dusting,
So that we can respect ourselves.
Even if you have someone to dust for you,
Keep dusting,
Because, ultimately,
It’s better to be a duster
Than to employ one.
The rich do not dust,
And look how they usually turn out!

During the Second World War,
British soldiers,
Prisoners of the Japanese,
Were compelled by their own officers
To shave every morning,
Regardless,
Because one cannot stop dusting;
One cannot take that risk,
Not after being stripped
Of everything else.
From dust you come,
To dust you return,
But, in the meantime,
Dust.

Dust as free men and women.
Put on the music and dust.
Dusting is noble: ask your grandmother!
Dusting is never a waste of time;
Only the thought that it's a waste of time
Is a waste of time.
Dust briskly as if brushing off a hero’s statue;
Dust gently as if caressing a lover;
Dust reverently.
Chop wood,
Fetch water,
Dust.
The world is a big, jolly snow globe
Filled with dust.
The last thing you need
Is a vacuum cleaner
Because dust is the stuff of life:
Once you are separated from that,
What might become of you?

We Will Scatter Your Ashes on the Lake Today

We will scatter your ashes on the lake today,
When the sun shines full upon it;
Early,
Like you always rose early.
We will remember you,
And this remembrance
Will mark the beginning of our forgetting.

We will scatter your ashes with heavy hearts,
Because these ashes are you,
And we are at fault.
We will be silent,
At least we would be
If we could,
But we never can and that’s one of the reasons why ...

We will scatter your ashes in your favorite place,
Though these ashes are not you
And you will not see it.
If you were here,
You would only make sarcastic remarks,
As would be your right;
But you are not here,
Not now.

We will scatter your ashes in the midst of resentment,
All thinking the others more to blame,
Only agreed upon one thing:
That it wasn’t you.
We tried to love you,
But we didn’t know how. Old story.
Too late.

We will scatter your ashes with no sense of joy,
Though your life was so well-lived.
You were an example;
We are ashamed.
There is no redemption in tragedy:
Catharsis is not redemption.

We will scatter your ashes with barely a word,
For you have broken the bond that should have united us,
And by you have broken, I mean we have broken.
We would bow before you,
But there is no you,
And we would only be embarrassed in front of one another.

We will scatter your ashes sadly, shamefully,
Yet unrepentantly,
Because we do not learn from experience:
Not us!
But you know that already.
No, knew it.
You don’t even know that anymore.


This poem was a response to Visual Verse's monthly challenge to write a poem in one hour inspired by a picture provided.

Some More of My Old Limericks

An obsessive young lady named Fong
Would constantly bang on a gong;
Said her doctor, “I find
You’ve an unbalanced mind—
You should strive for more ding and less dong.”


In the village of Jingamafloo,
They don’t look at the world like we do:
When a gentleman dies
His dear wife shouts, “Surprise!
Now we’ll all get a little more stew.”


How to spell the potato has tried
Many minds, sometimes mine, I’ll confide.
Though it might have an eye,
There’s no E – don’t ask why!
Not until it’s been baked, boiled or fried.


If a thought that’s been thought has been “thunk”
Have those dreams that we’ve sought all been “sunk”?
Should “we ought” be “we unk”?
Can what’s fought be what’s “funk”?
And those stocks that we bought, were they “bunk”?


There once was a yogi who said,
“I can see I should never have wed:
Our carnal relations
Only cause lamentations—
I suspect it’s the nails in the bed.”


Assisting a suicide’s fate
Is a practice all faiths seem to hate:
Is God, the Creator,
Some prickly Head Waiter,
Who freaks if you send back your plate?

The Gods Who We Are

Build an altar
To your wiser self;
Light incense and candles;
Await the presence
That comes only in stillness,
The presence that communes with you,
Is you.
Only you,
Who are so miniscule,
Yet infinite.

Our ancestors knelt before Osiris
And they received blessings.
Osiris, Apollo, Mary, Allah
Brahman, Buddah,
That flamboyant revivalist the Sun
And his soul sister the Moon—
All only you,
You and me.

However, like wild animals,
The gods who we are will not come
If they know that we are here.
So, silence first and foremost.
Fold into yourself,
That you might unfold from yourself,
Like the numbers
In an origami finger game:
Disappear so that you might reappear.
Still to active and back to still
Is the way of life and thought.
Be still all hearts.

Wait upon yourself,
At the edge of the night,
Reverently:
Hushed like a lamb,
Primed like a lion.
You are the only one who can receive the revelation,
And you are the only one who can give it.

The Dandelions

The dandelions are laughing in the grass,
But soon I’ll be along to mow them down.
I bend to ape the customs of my class,
And such displays aren’t welcome in this town.
We’ve deemed that all our lawns must look alike,
Bereft of giddy-headed yellow charms;
The place for flowering things is on a hike,
With rippling streams and wholesome, oblong farms.
To stop and stare there is a place and time,
But don’t pretend it might be here and now:
The workweek does not yield to the sublime;
The lapwing’s nest is nothing to the plough.
No, we’re resolved to hasten, strain and strive,
To squeeze on through like earthworms, not to thrive.

Nothing to Say

Humanity,
Shuffling through the street,
Watching TV,
Driving cars,
All with nothing to say,
And yet so quiet about it,
As if they don’t even see it as a problem,
The “despair of not being in despair."

No, if you have nothing to say,
That’s a stage-four symptom of something deadly;
You should be crying for help.
Shout it from the rooftops:
"I have nothing to say,
Oh, sweet Jesus, I have nothing to say.”
If you have nothing to say,
I want to hear you say it.
We all need to hear it.

Scribble it on the wall beneath the railroad track,
Wear it on a tee shirt,
Or flash it to someone with a knowing look—
Even a glare would do.
Form secret societies,
And murmur about it.
Take that first step.

Let all the people who have nothing to say
Join together
And march on Washington:
“We have nothing to say,
Goddamnit,
And we’re gonna say it!”

Nothing to say is reason to scream.
Scream until the bubble explodes:
Who knows what mystery might burst forth?
Nothing to say—
Bang!

Creatio ex nihilo.

The stars have nothing to say.
Life has nothing to say.
Lovers have nothing to say.

There is nothing to say,
But that’s no excuse
For going about it in completely the wrong way!
From the silence of unconsciousness
We must rescue the silence of awareness.

I’m Looking for a Mind at Work

I’m looking for a mind at work,
Compassionate and giving,
A consciousness that seeks the good
Of every creature living.
I’m looking for a sense of care,
A bias for protection,
But when I dare to stop and stare,
I just see blind selection:
The cuckoo raids another nest,
And Smokey grabs a rabbit,
While soccer moms strike squirrels down,
Just out of callous habit.

I’m looking for a higher love,
But only find a scheme;
An algorithmic strategy,
A program, not a dream.
I’m looking for a miracle,
If only on occasion,
But Nature’s brutal wheel just turns,
Quite heedless of dissuasion.
The suffering of innocents—
A cliché for good reason,
For in all weathers, hot or cold,
They’re never out of season.

I’m looking for a mind at work,
And likewise so are you;
I just can’t find a trace of one,
I know that irks you too;
For though we’re told the road is long,
And that the gate is narrow,
We don’t see why the rules can’t bend
To sometimes save a sparrow.
No, mysticism never helped
Us see behind closed doors:
And yet there is a mind at work,
The one that’s mine and yours.

More of My Old Limericks

I've no fear of the mean streets of Skokie —
I'm adept at concealed karaoke:
If I'm under attack,
There's a switch that I whack —
Then it blares out a loud “Hokey Pokey".


Is Algebra fruitless endeavor?
It seems they’ve been trying for ever
To find x, y, and z
And it’s quite clear to me:
If they’ve not found them yet then they'll never.


There once was a baby named Sam
Who would never be good for his mam:
His screams were so loud
That he’d draw a small crowd,
Then he’d sell bootlegged booze from his pram.


As for sex education, I’ve wondered
If our school system’s totally blundered,
For the textbooks these days
Just teach two or three ways—
While Norwegians learn more than five hundred.


There once was a man of Nepal
Who declared, "I have seen through it all.
I shall sit on my bum
And not even chew gum
And shall think and do nothing at all."


One’s stance on the flinging of feces
Is likely to hinge on one’s species,
The strength of one’s arm,
One’s urge to do harm,
And whether one rents, owns or leases.

Blessed Lives

We lead blessed lives,
Safe lives,
Never facing combat,
The slashing of iron against bone;
Never realizing
How resolutely the laws of physics
Stand to attention,
Ready to pump out the blood.

We go on gut instinct,
Ignorant of how quickly it all falls apart,
Of how readily we start putting people on trains—
Anything to be of help.
We only see the surface;
Living is not really living.

We must look unblinkingly into the abyss:
We must steel ourselves,
So that we can dare to think and feel.
A little suffering keeps despair at bay,
Enabling everything
Beautiful and good,
Virtuous and sound,
To come into being
And endure.
We must be armored,
Prepared to fight:
Only the hard can be soft,
And we must be soft
At any cost.

In Praise of Income Tax

I love the income tax,
I’m very glad to pay it;
It makes the world a better place.
I’m not afraid to say it.
To spread some of the wealth around
Enhances any nation,
If, like all acts of virtue,
It’s performed in moderation.

Sing praises to the income tax,
Oh people near and far:
The more you have to pay of it,
The better off you are.
Instead of revolution,
With bloodshed, ruin and strife,
How sweet it is to write a check
And get on with your life.

Not everybody has quick brains,
Clear vision or bold pluck,
Robustness, or resilience,
Or, most of all, good luck.
So, be a hero, not a jerk,
Should you be blessed with stacks:
Please act as if you’re all grown up
And gladly pay your tax.