While I have a grate deal of confidence in my well-founded opinions, I can get lost in sharing these opinions with those who have no interest in listening to them. Even if I am right, the shadow of self-righteousness can be long and insidious. This poem is a reminder to myself, and anyone else interested, that there is a more patient, more grounded way to be in the whirled. Plus, then, when voice and action arises, they are less likely to be reactive to foolishness and more likely to be aligned with positive change.
The Rode Less Travailed
Life was rife
With lacks and lackeys
And I was on my high hoarse
With no won hearing me
Peering to me
As a fete worse than deaf
Where listening is for the birds
And talk is cheep
Only then to be struck
By a deferent weigh
An untrying action
I planted my feat on the ground
Fore a more quiet rooting
Me on
Firmer footing
And growing patience
I listen
I spy
With no bugging
I find myself moved
More by warmth
And just reign
Life is loaming large
And dancing is a breeze
Life is teeming
With deep timber speaking
And tender reed swaying
And when my voice rises
There is but one measure
Improving upon silence
That well being
And bed rock of fecund action
