Perhaps, I am too quick to call it greed;
this yearning for an accumulation,
this lust of Mine!, self gratification,
a trophy case to cram with coin or heads
or banned ivory trinkets carved of tusk.
The rich, they give but not without receipts,
and accolades, and plaques to hang above their names.
Nature demands a self-interest if we
are to survive, I know, but studies show:
the poor are more generous than the rich,
percentage wise, of course. What does that say?
One thing to me….. another thing to you.
What of a heart more soothed by treasures’ lure
than smiles of thanks of a person in need?
Perhaps, I am too quick to call it greed;
one thing to me……another thing to you.
Tag: poetry
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Greed
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My Hallmark Moment
1998: Middle-aged Love
Once despairing of loves existence
I embraced solitude with forlorn persistence.
But you banished that sadness in me;
Drew back the curtain that I might see.Your smile evoked a peaceful bliss…..
Morning light through an ethereal mist.
You are the joy that a found child brings.
Lost; now found, my heart just sings!Your are the garden of my soul
Where joy surrounds, where delight unfolds,
Where prism hues in dazzling arrays
Grace fragrant nights and sun-drenched days. -
More!
I glanced you captured there inside your glare;
your mouth drawn tight, a knurled apple agape,
with silent shrieks more shrill than one could bear.
My God! No touch or words or meds could sate
your frantic mind; unlock, release the glut
of images that only you could see.
You spoke a dialogue…narrating, but
all vague; so jumbled up…a horrid clutch…
and then… I feared you lost for evermore.
Your eyes were dead but you pulled near to me
and grasp my arm and paused to question, “More?”
For an instant your eyes they lived, begged me
to understand your plea and I responded, “More!”
Our silly game remembered, “I love you!”
Then the other responds, “I love you, more!”
………ad infinitum -
Mourning Dove
In grass beneath the ravaged feeder,
accepting rejected seed dropped
or flung away by purple finch,
the pair bob thanks that go unseen
except by me.
Sated, they ascend
to birdbath rim, meekly chanting,
seeking permission few could deny.
In monkish semblance they drink.
Again, sated…
they lift with
white-tipped, feather robes trailing
to sing in calls we’ve name mourning
but which can only be joyous coos
of gratitude.
What watcher first
saw the dove as symbol of peace
of hope, of love, of a risen god?
I’ve lived a lifetime and only now
I ask this question?
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The Portal
My friend laments her passing years
As lost, as nothing now. But wait,
Dear one, I disagreed, they’re there;
Just out of sight and sound, secured,
Waiting behind memories door.
You probably walked past them this morning
Admiring your gardens offerings. Your cheek
Just graced their hiding place as you sniffed,
Then snapped malingering blooms. They’re there,
Passed buddleias purple cones, above
Rudbeckias stylized suns, behind
Hollyhocks rust/blotched leaves.
Don’t be afraid; slip your slender hand
Up to your thin, white wrist into the mass
And turn like a key.
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“Et tu, Brute?”
I read his obit today; the who
what where when but not the how.
I had missed him, felt his absence
But put it down to his capriciousness.
Last week, his body, such as it was,
Was found, fittingly, behind the file
Marked “Lost and Found”
Beside the head librarian’s desk;
A feeble attempt at humor, as was,
The hand-lettered sign strung round
His neck by string, naming him….Muse.
Cause of his passing was indeterminable
Due to the condition of the form.
I suspect years of abuse at the hands
Of the likes of me and the laureates.
No charges were filed:
There was too little evidence
Or too many possible suspects;
It was all unclear. The case is closed.
•
Plans for internment will be announced
When a proper eulogy can be obtained.
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Deadheading
I wait too long, dreading the pinching of the bloom;
the trashing of faded glory limply browning.
Rampant roses prick my intent with minute thorns
for severing when scent sings sweetest.
Now, flaccid sheaths, daylily blooms bleed
pomegranate/pink flora blood on my fingers
as I grasp to snap them from their kin.
Remove the old and the new will flourish;
we say over and over; true, or only a mantra
we chant to appeased our aversions to what
we see as the useless weak and unsightly?
After the pinch I let them lie at their makers feet
to sing in final sweetness of summation;
to remain and bask and seep back to the whole.
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Free Will
This is where I hang: exposed to dry air;
Filleted in equal pink pieces to parch
In low, fly/buzzed humidity, to shrink
to the leathery truth. Deprived of the
justification gene, I can make no
excuse; can’t blame father, mother, a god
or circumstance or fate. Am I so blessed or cursed?
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Gardening 101: Attitude
On damaged knees in wet and sweet dark dirt,
the gardener in his plot mumbles:
his soul is singing songs of friable decay,
of tingling life through fingers’ sifting touch.
.
He presents his face, unashamed and
divinity anoints him priest, seer, Adam’s son
with sacred smudge of sweat and primal dust.
All joy is not in bloom but in seeding.
Belated Words 