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.