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I have never been a big fan of normal. “Getting back to normal” strikes me as a somewhat low bar. Every “new” normal seems eerily similar to previous uninspiring states of normal. This sense of mine is similar to the sentiment expressed in the movie, Steel Magnolias: “I would rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.” May we dare to live a life full of wonder, even at great cost to a “normal” life.

Normal Eyes

Just a bunch
Of regular guise
I’ing
What peers
As normal eyes
In listing
The rank
And file scores
Ires
Looking to return
To earlier daze
In a bit of a craze
That grievance of being
Owed fashion
And awe the rage
Perhaps even a furor
They were desperate
For a mythical time
At best
Not so
Sow grate
Inquest for normal
More mine than yore
A true norm ill
They looked into the sole of US
Exhibit won of sow much soiled
Run US, run US
And the alleged ascent to we’ll
Throw awe others
Under the bussed
As condemn nation tired
Full of tread
On me and you
Living under the tales of elephants for gotten
Or living in such an illusive notion
Ass stable as won could ever be
Bequeathing US
On going retro grade
Of all F’s

Efficiency is highly overrated. The abundant life is not well defined by ultra-precise engineering.

Efficient Love

An award no one yearned for:
Most efficient love
Weather child or mate
Strikingly spare
That scant do attitude
Eager for meager
Barren awe
With foreboding forbidding
Know abundance chaste
In accessible bounty
That largesse prize possible
Paid
The minimum

When light and dark clash…

In Sighting a Right

The light shone on
Their misdeeds
ON fool display
OFF to the razes
Tripping and flipping
That awe im-potent switch
Tempting too turn off
Soully to be disconnected
In their desperation
Closing their I’s
Groping that lifeless switch
Soully lashing out
Their dim mines
Effacing the light
More sow like cockroaches
Scuttling in the shadows
Temping to void the light
Flailing miserably
Won buy land
To bye see
Jousting lyin’s in the sand
A horizon
They cannot cross
Sun rise
The inevitable a rival
Round and round
Dark daze and new mournings
Blessedly give
Way too
Radiant futures
Beyond just
Sight

Are you tapped? There is an inexhaustible reservoir of awe.

Awe is Not Lost

Awe is not lost
Awe is the soul compass
Of true-hearted folks
The antidote
To narrow mined view points
Teeming with succors of all kinds
And throwing balms wildly
In awe directions

This morning as I left the house, on a grungy fall day, I almost forgot my usual survey of my beautiful front yard, albeit with denuded trees and a carpet of wet leaves. As I walked away, I remembered, turned left, and over my shoulder I saw a single white rose blooming. The rose blooms this year were as scant as I can recall. Still, this bloom arose, after being touched, by the first snow. In recent years, I have come to believe that in God’s want ads there are innumerable job openings for humans to witness nature, often unwitnessed by human eyes. These job openings are largely unfilled, and these openings re-present countless opportunities for an opening of human hearts. Prophets are arising. May we see the signs and respond with open hearts.

Arose

The land had been snowed
Again
Deep in
The fall
Froze
Still
There a peer
A single white rose
Arose
By any other name
Arose

NOTE: for another layer of meaning, The White Rose was a German resistance movement in Nazi Germany.

The just persist.

Fallen Reign

The reign fell
On the just
And the knot sow just
And might be
What is it
A boat
As the tide razes all
Weather you Noah or not
That which bids
An olive branch
Like goaled
At the end
Of a rainbow
Never agin

Here is a poem about the future, with two competing views; one anchored in both antiquity and eternity, multigenerational — the long view; versus another, characterized by the 30-second ad,  24-hour news cycle, and quarterly earnings reports — the short view. Hope abides and sneaks up on us with creative outbursts, even in the face of short-sighted, self-destructive weighs.

The Future, The Passed

He abode
So far
Into the future
To fix your eye
On him
Would peer
Only as a might
A mote uncrossed
Not worth won’s tension
And to boot
Far in arrears
He wrested
Rooted in times so ancient
What ever
Turn a bout
Would halve a mind to mete
Olden daze
Cleaving the novel
Awe weighs losing out
To a 30-second add
That curser-y lessen
Of the quick and the dead
That witch will
Last
In efface of that unquenchable first

In these somewhat psychotic days, some may be tempted to believe that we can act outside of history, or ignore it. Still, I suspect that reality will have its way with us. This may lead to the inertia of history acting akin to the quote: “You can always count on Americans to do the right thing, but only after exhausting every other possibility.” [attributed in some form to Winston Churchill] I am more hopeful. I see an irreducible human spirit that rises in the face of injustice. The greater the injustice, the greater the fuel for this spark to start a fire in our collective hearts. Then, there is know greater force in the world.

I’ll Have a Side of History

History is often
Like the last kid picked
Fore a team
Its secreted virtue rascality
As serendipitous as fate
Underestimated
Its irreproachable timing eternal
The best on its side
Fulfilling the worthy work of sentries
Fiery generations unmatched
Awe weighs on the right side

A short poem to remind us that awe is not lost.

Bred of Life

Eternity calls
In every moment most kneaded
Bred for ever and ever
Flower and sweetness
Salty tears
Water yielding to life
In tending
The yeast of these
Time gives rise to awe

One small hope in the unfolding Trump regime is that the off-the-charts power-mongering and corruption will result in minions behaving like scorpions in a bottle, turning on one another, perhaps degrading their degrading schemes.

Scorpions in a Bottle

The ultimate con quest
Won wring
Too rule them all
They have
Dissembled together
Dough minions
Of every manor
Their savvy genius rounded up
Their whored of power
Stacked
As giving
As a hill of beings
As the profits speak
What lack he
O death wear
Is thy sting
A morality
Slipping
On barrels of snake oil
A mortality
Sipping
On poison
Its soul weapon
A battle fool of fateful pricks
And all that madders
What race engender
That will
Get me a cross
That finish lyin’

The myth of Icarus is one of hubris. Icarus fashions wings of feathers and wax and flies toward the sun. Untoward to him, the sun melts his wings and he plunges back to earth  –for a new sort of flies…

Icarus Flies — The Gathering

As Icarus flies
We wax on
Wee are awe that
Dissembling
Such reverence
Fore all of our droppings

Love is bigger than hate.

Healing Fire

I am naught
Created by my enemies
The most fateful of lessens
I am awe
In the presents
Of my One True Friend
My soul in large
A journey to love true
That healing fire
Never forged by hate