Every writer, I think, has a drawer or bin or shelf where projects go to die. The chief culprit in my case is bad poetry. No one should want to be a poet. Complicating the situation, the most poetic souls are likely tortured enough to think no one would want to read their work anyway. I need something to update with... And copying old poems may be worth the effort.


Confused


The penguins fly away
On wings borrowed from the Dodo
To escape the ferocious polar bears
Who finally found a way
To tell North from South.
They must have learned from butterfly
Who used to be such a bookworm.

The sun emerged, refuting purple waves,
While the moon merrily retreated,
Till its mood turned to crimson blood.

I sailed to work today
Trying not to let gravity pull me away.
Who knows what would happen
If I ever remembered how to fall.

I wonder what people do
When they wake up
And the world isn't upside down.



God In Wrinkles

I sat in the crowded lecture hall
Of the philosophy conference,
Surrounded by sophists
And arrogance in suits.
Of all the groups in the world,
You would think Socrates' family reunion
Would recognize that it didn't know squat.
All day I listen to debates:
Mind and body
Spirit and nature
Logic in an illogical universe.
The only real truth uncovered is that even the wise disagree...
They were sparring over what Hobbes really said
When I heard the hall doors creek open behind me.
I turned and peeked to see the newcomer,
Coming to join us in this intellectual torture chamber.
An old man, frail, leaning on his cane,
Made his way from door
To the empty seat beside me.
He sat down, adjusted himself,
Then looked at me and smiled.
We listened and listened
Not saying a word
Taking in everything.
Hours later, I was surprised he was still awake.
We exchanged glances when they said something stupid
So smart that it was ignorant
So informed it was dumb.
After a while, the first windbag on stage
Became stuck in a death hold of knotted logic,
And out of reason, pandered to the crowd,
Asking us what we thought.
I said I didn't know
Not wanting to spar
With someone whose ego so easily bruised
(And not sure in my heart if the question can be answered).
No help to be had from me,
He turned to the old man beside me.
Philosopher, he said, what do you say?
The old man hesitated a moment,
Then smiled and replied:
Hobbes is saying that we are selfish
Not hopelessly evil.
But the motive unexamined
Might be the one that kills us.
The soft crackling voice stopped
And the two duelists on stage went silent.
Then the assault began, grilling him,
From Ontology to Aristotle.
He answered them all
With the deft grace of a master.
Everything, anything,
All knowledge was his.
They proclaimed him king,
Tried to write down every word he said.
Finally, he looked at me and said,
Son, you he been awfully quiet.
I looked back, trying to gather my courage.
You've read all the books
And earnestly sought
To find all these answers by honest thought.
I have too... And I appreciate the honesty
And your willingness to save fools from themselves.
But what I want to know has never been published.
Still ill give you a chance because I'm impressed,
Give me a philosophy on women.
He smiled and grinned,
Now more wrinkles and teeth than face
A small chuckle escaping his breath.
That's the best question I've heard all day
Because it's one whose answer might matter.
So Ill give it my best go...
A woman wants two things.
Give them to her and she's yours.
First, slay her Dragon.
Second, build her a castle.
The Dragon may be her father,
Her brother,
Her past.
Save her from it, not once,
But again and again,
Until at last the beast retreats.
Then build her a castle,
Full of the security she craves
Filled with treasures only love and attention can give.
Do those two, day in, day out,
Never resting comfortable on your laurels
And any woman is yours.
I paused, reflecting, almost starting to cry.
What if the Dragon is too big for me
Or she wants to slay it herself?
The old man still smiled.
They always do, son.
The trick is to let them do it.
Its not important who wielded the sword
Only who provided the strength and encouragement.
Their soul knows the debt
And will gladly repay it.
As to the size of the Dragon,
I've seen quite a few,
And they're always bigger than me,
Bigger than buildings,
Bigger than cities and planets.
They're huge and ferocious, all but invincible.
The secret that takes them
Is that love, real love,
Is even bigger still.
I nodded quietly
Then shook his hand good night,
And walked out the door.
My only question left as I wandered
Was how long the learned men would remember
The day that God wore wrinkles.