WHAT IS TRUE HAS BECOME A LIE
What is true has become a lie,
A lie has now become the truth.
Now fish can sing and pigs can fly,
The truth itself is simply moot.
We’ve all gone made – lost our senses,
Deceitfulness is now the norm.
“Tear down bridges! Build those fences!”
Can we weather this troubling storm?
Will Truth’s beacon shine bright again,
Dispel the darkness and discord,
Cause the deep wounds to heal and mend
Until greatness is again restored?
THE HAND OF TIME
The hand of Time has touched the bloom
Which now begins to slowly droop
To end what started in the womb;
The upright head begins to stoop.
Supple edges begin to fray,
Colors start to slowly pale
Till all is turned to ashen gray;
What once was strong turns weak and frail.
Each petal will drop one by one
Till nothing’s left but barren stem.
No longer felt the warming sun;
Grows faint the light before the end.
Beware of foxes
Dressed in their Sunday finest –
Posted in haiku, Poetry
LA BELLE ET LA BETE
Hidden deep beneath this bestial facade,
Can you see past this monstrosity
And catch a glimpse of nobility;
A kindred spirit which pride has forbade?
Cursed forever for haughty arrogance,
Chastised by affliction’s painful cruelties,
Humbled by all my iniquities,
Is redemption possible in a dance?
Time measured by the petals of a rose.
Can love be found in this world so cruel,
Hidden deep within, a priceless jewel,
Before hope is lost with the coming snows?
Lack of charm and grace – such a meager feast.
Could love’s virtue to this soul impart
And soothe and tame this wild, savage heart.
Can beauty find a way to love this beast?
THE SORCERER’S APPRENTICE
Laboring ceaselessly in some lonely garret,
Attempting to bring to life things of great merit,
Conjuring up images from out of thin air
That convey beauty, truth, and love; pain and despair.
Late into each night, nothing but toil and trouble,
Constructing palaces from out of the rubble.
Over a seething cauldron, stirring up potions,
Distilling the essence of human emotions.
Failing night after night, and yet, still keep trying,
Words, like fish on the shore, on the page lay dying.
But in rare moments, success is sometimes achieved.
Magically, words coalesce – a poem is conceived.
NOW THE DORMANT TREES AWAKEN FROM THEIR WINTER SLUMBER
Now the dormant trees awaken from their winter slumber,
Stretch their branches upwards towards the radiant sun.
From deep roots rise the nurturing sap now unencumbered;
Emerge the tender buds – the resurrection has begun.
Bathed in the luxuriant rays of summer’s radiance,
Each vibrant leaf now bursts forth in growing exuberance,
Spread their regal canopy in emerald brilliance
To dance in the soft wind’s breath as it bobs each laden branch.
All too soon the days will shorten; the sky turn ashen gray.
Drop one by one the blushing leaves of autumn’s gentle kiss.
After the harvest bounty, the quiet land will fallow lay,
As each tree falls asleep to dream again of summer’s bliss.
THE INADEQUACY OF WORDS
Inert symbols laying on the page,
Vessels containing so little wealth,
A thousand for a single image;
Simulacrum of the thing itself.
“Bread” alone an empty stomach does not fill,
Neither can words make you smell the scent of rain,
Nor taste an apple or feel the winter chill;
An apt description is simply not the same.
To transform words into living flesh,
Bursting with life and not mere meaning,
Taste the sweet kiss, feel the soft caress;
The word itself has become the thing.