“Science investigates; religion interprets. Science gives man knowledge, which is power; religion gives man wisdom, which is control. Science deals mainly with facts; religion deals mainly with values. The two are not rivals.” — MLK
Observe the small child
bent over the forest trail,
a tiny fist protecting
the fragile remains
of a shattered eggshell,
and then gazing up
into the clear day sky -
Neither science nor faith
can answer all the questions
racing through their
curious mind, about time
and fate and who'll escape,
and who won't, and when,
and why
for openwrite
Just four lines, you say,
on your ninth birthday;
four gifts of some words,
in the Lu Su way?
If we were in school,
I'd teach you the rules,
then urge you to break them
and then to remix them
and then to find four more
thoughts that might carry
you forward on this very day;
the ninth year of making
in the Daily Create way
for DS106
Every day
brings another
new dawn, another
possibility for another
new song
— for Greg
The old man stopped me
on the path inside the park
and said, before I could stop him,
Let me tell you
something about this bench,
this one here, this bench is named
for the man who led the school,
the one right over there,
a man who had a large nose,
right there, but who was a fine man
at that school when I knew him,
a fine man with a big nose,
and something else, too, he had the
word nose in his name, too,
and isn't that just something to think about,
and when I replied that I, too,
knew the man, and agreed, but hadn't
seen this particular bench in the park before,
we were both quiet for a minute,
strangers thinking together of the man
with a large nose who led the school,
right there.
Muse,
I know
you're always listening
to this singing
on my own
Muse,
I lean
to the inner quiet
the crawl spaces
of this home
Muse,
where's your
whispering
when I need it,
all alone?
Muse,
you're here,
burrowed words,
the last lines
inside a poem
for OpenWrite
Bent arcs
may be beautiful,
but they're fragile
in the center,
where the creases
always show
I’m burying words -
letters in the fertile soil
for lightning to strike
for Algot
Yesterday
I stood
in the place
I remember
today -
the bend by
the bridge
where the brook
brings ice
from beyond
and tomorrow,
I'll be remembering
how today turned
yesterday;
that river
never stops
flowing
for openwrite
Winter rain is barely listening
as I stumble over words
of darkness and the dogs,
the coyotes we just heard
Though the storm is ever present
and even crawling down my ear,
Winter rain is barely listening
I'm nothing it cares to hear
Still, I'm talking to the falling sky,
to leafless trees and slippery ground;
I'm gifting rain a piece of mind,
my voice, something to be found
‘Poems
instead of
papers’
we don’t live
in a world
that values
verse
instead,
to be a poet
contains a crazy
concept
or worse,
a curse
Reclining into recluse
of inked words
and paper dreams
we’re always
digging in,
to root the hurt
to mine the
seams
— inspired by a phrase reference in Late Migrations (A Natural History of Love and loss) by Margaret Renkl