Tao of the Willow

They who are ancient and wise and gone,
say (or said),
that the course and meaning of life,
the very Way,
cannot be explained.

It simply is.

It is going with the flow.
It is the finding of balance.
It is the connecting with,
and the becoming of,
the oneness all around.

Why fight it?

Maybe Pooh Bear,
or The Dude can be instructive here.
Upon the fickle tides of life's ocean,
they find themselves adrift,
cast about carelessly on rickety rafts,
unhurried,
unburdened,
and unconcerned about direction.

What purpose,
does expending energy,
upon the fruitless task of trying,
pointlessly,
to control the uncontrollable,
really achieve?

Better it is,
to follow the Tao of the willow,
bending,
and surrendering to the changing winds,
unbreakable.

7-11-19

Notes On Visiting the Department of Motor Vehicles

I've heard of a place where demons dwell,
It's a dark and lonely portal to Hell,
But in my opinion it wasn't so bad,
The clientele wasn't nearly as sad,
As all the horrible stories they tell.

The DMV is impossibly inevitable,
Unless ye be mineral or vegetable,
I happen to know,
We'll all have to go,
Because the vehicle code is impenetrable!

The employees are not totally unkind,
They do have a rather unenviable time,
Each day they confront,
Citizens so blunt,
As to drive each of them out of their mind.

I know the truth due to hours I spent,
In the beastly belly of doom where I went,
To register and license,
For my Class C drivin',
And the things I saw are a bit different.

They come undocumented and entitled,
Rude folks who become unbridled,
They yell and they scream,
But this is no one's dream,
To watch an adult act like a spoiled child.

It would seem that the budget is bloated,
But it wouldn't be polite if I gloated,
I would have some nerve,
To attack those who serve,
And it's not like anyone's getting demoted.

Renewals, transfers, & permitting needs,
The collective good the money feeds,
Roads and bridges get fixed,
But those projects seem to get nixed,
And the cracks in the streets host weeds.

So what's three hours to be up to date,
When motor vehicles are our fate?
It's the way it's designed,
So we should be resigned,
To the rules of the game in this state.

At least the facilities will help you cope,
But once you finish there is no hope,
Where it should be dispensed,
A summary scrawled & condensed,
Are only the words, "You need soap."

6-23-19

One Hundred Fifteen (3-2-19)

Just now it hit me,
Just now I was struck,
That a day like today,
Well,
It is remarkable luck!

What better type of day,
To honor the man,
Who made reading so fun,
Who made us all fans?

I mean,
It's raining!
Are you kidding me?
It is actually raining,
On Theodor's birthday!
Just like that book,
You know the one,
Where the Cat shows up,
With Thing Two and Thing One.

(Let us note,
Some of his older drawings are icky.
If he drew them today,
Things would get sticky.
The ones showing different people,
In exaggerated ways,
Well,
They would not,
SHOULD not,
Be done these days!)

However,
On a damp day like today,
Because it is raining,
Because it is grey,
We should think many thinks,
About his best works.
And how they've grown many readers.
Those are great perks!

It is ironic,
I say,
It is quite a sight,
That on Ol' Seussy's birthday,
It should rain from morning to night.
His books and ideas,
His undeniable rhymes,
Have made me smile,
Quite a few times.

So happy birthday to you,
Dear Geisel,
Wherever you are.
Thanks to you ,
We all love to read,
On planes and ships,
Or in cars.

3-2-19

(Thanks to Caroline Hines Melgoza for the inadvertent suggestion!)

Tourism Board: Buy This Poem (2-18-19)

Western states,
where winter is suggested,
but not mandatory.
Where the first sunny day,
following stormy weather,
awakens hopeful thoughts of spring to come.

Blessed and lucky we are,
to live in this arid,
shining west.
This landscape of dreams;
at least until the water runs out.

These crisp sunshine days of winter,
a mockery of Wisconsinite brutality,
a denial of New England blizzards,
when donning shorts and flip-flops,
in late February,
induces smiles,
because it feels so good.
And let's face it,
it is somehow,
ridiculous,
to wear shorts and flip-flops in February,
even in the west.

Western winters have their rare,
unicorn-like,
moments.
The occasional hard freeze on the desert floor,
snow (once a decade) in Las Vegas,
or perhaps,
three WHOLE days of rain in Greater L.A.
Unthinkable!
But it happens.
Sometimes.

Winter of the west.
Keep a coat handy,
or at least a hoody.

Be ready to indulge your inner farmer,
at a moment's notice,
when you will feel compelled to dig the earth,
plant vibrant flowers,
play God.
Maybe,
like us,
you plant a little cactus,
or daffodils,
that remind you of home.

Rejoice in the blissful February sunshine,
soak up the tender warmth that disappears,
so quickly,
when the shade falls across your brow.
Days like these,
are what sell little plots of land,
on the outskirts of Phoenix,
or Tucson,
or Palm Springs,
or even Sacramento,
where snowbirds go on the lam,
hiding out from eternal midwestern winters.
How can we blame them?
We know what a gift we have,
even if we forget sometimes to enjoy it.
We take it for granted,
until days like this.

Sure,
we're a bit smug about winter out here,
where experiencing snow is a choice,
seen mostly on distant rugged ranges,
like powdered donuts.
Sunny days like this,
in February,
you feel like a kid again,
bubbling with happy wonder.
These are days that inspire.
They are days that are nearly perfect.

Elsewhere,
we know,
the grim grip of winter holds fast and long.
The bitter winds,
the snowy drifts,
snuff out hope.
These are days to cherish.
For we know,
that the oppressive boot of summer will arrive in due time,
and our backs will be dripping with sweat.
Now though,
with these hints of spring,
with this sweet breeze,
with this radiant sunshine,
this winter of the west seems mythical,
an impossible fiction,
but it's not.

A joke!
snarling Bostonians exclaim,
dismissing western winters,
where valleys are already verdant and alive.
The laughter rings out,
not from those huddled 'round a Franklin stove,
not from some hermetically,
defiantly,
expertly sealed suburban Cleveland home.

No!
That laughter is mine,
and it emanates from the patio,
out there in the yard,
out in the February sun.

2-18-19

Things I Taught Today (2-12-19)

Fractions,
Kindness,
Responsibility,
The word is "your,"
Listening,
How to find evidence in text,
Following directions,
Teamwork,
Using evidence from a text when writing,
Failure happens,
Learn from failure,
Honesty,
The word is "their,"
Integrity,
How to add details from a text to an essay,
Independence,
Dedication,
Don't write in the margins,
Geology,
Patience,
Self-respect,
Um, evidence?

Determination,
The word is "there,"
Punctuation,
No one is perfect,
Especially me,
Margins,
Punctuation.

Perseverance,
Humility,
Parts of speech,
Confidence,
The word is "you're,"
Accountability,
Punctuation?

Punctuation!

Humor,
Public speaking,
History,
Time mangement,
Did I mention not writing in the margins?

Acceptance,
Empathy,
Manners,
Sportsmanship,
Commas not comas,
The word is "they're."

Margins, man, margins...

You know, your typical socialist agenda.

2-12-19

Limericks These Days (2-1-19)

There was a young lad whose poems were bawdy,
People complained that they were too tawdry,
So sad to hear,
You don't know Ed Lear,
And I'm sorry that this one's not naughty!

2-1-19

Dusty Form (1-22-19)

'Tis the realm of wordy, nerdy,
Hirsute English professors,
Infatuated with Yeats and Poe and Plath.
Seuss, as well, if you ask!

Prone to pithy pronouncements and,
Obscure references,
Entirely and arrogantly,
Moribund.

So, why bother?
Uninhibited thoughts and images,
Continually crawling from my brain,
Keeping apace and cleansing my,
Soul.

1-22-19

Moms Are Real Mothers!

Let it be known that moms,
The ones who put up with it all,
Who love unconditionally,
Give everything for their children,
Every day,
Always,
They are real mothers!

Moms,
They are the ones who take no shit!
The ones who kiss boo-boos,
The ones who ride you about grades,
And say no,
When yes is easier.
Moms surprise you when you are,
Theoretically,
Strictly as an example,
Sneaking out of the house on a Thursday.

Their disappointment is crushing,
Only because their love is endless,
And you are acting like an idiot!

They are the ones who care,
Guide,
Advise,
Overlook faults,
But encourage us to do better,
And always love,
Without question.

Like I said,
Real mothers!

They can break us with their tears,
Just as we break their hearts,
With inattention,
Inconsiderate actions,
Unkind words,
And stupid choices,
But they always stand,
Ever at the ready,
To give love,
Understanding,
And comfort,
Because that's what a mom does.

Moms do this,
Always.
While busy,
Or tired,
Or sick,
Or all three.
They worry and wonder.
They want only the best for their babies.
They stay up late,
Get up early,
Work all day,
Prepare meals and outfits,
Do unending chores,
Thanklessly.

And,
Just so we're clear,
A mom is not just a mother.
Giving birth is not a staked claim.

Trust me,
There's some real mothers out there!
They are moms too,
And sometimes dads,
Or aunts,
Or cousins,
Or friends and coworkers,
But they are moms,
Despite blood ties,
For they do the job,
Without being asked,
Because everyone needs a mom.

Moms make it their goal in life to be there,
To be the solace,
The embodiment of love.
Always.
Our moms,
They're real mothers!

5-12-19

Thursday's Run

Thursday's runs always suck!
Bearing the baggage of the week:
Insufficient sleep,
Too many heavy meals,
Or not enough,
And the fatigue of work-a-day existence.

This should be a day of prime running.
Afterall,
Mighty Thor himself has lent his name.
How auspicious and powerful,
But tragically,
It isn't  so.
As they say,
"Thursday's child has far to go,"
And I,
Unfortunately,
Have miles to run before the sun will rise.

Feeling weak,
Dragging and worn,
I run in the nadir of the week.
Struggling,
Like Thor after battle with Jörmungandr,
When he took nine steps and died!
That's me,
Running,
On a Thursday.

5-9-19

City of Trees

Every city has it's moment,
A time,
A season,
When everything seems perfect,
Even,
(I imagine),
DeLand,
Or Flint,
Or Plano,
Or Youngstown,
Or...
Phoenix.

Surely,
There are cities,
Far and wide,
All across this world of ours,
That are in perpetual blossom,
No matter the season.
In these realms,
There is a constant beauty,
An element of magic,
Like an intoxicating perfume,
Powerful enough,
And indeed capable,
Of inducing enchantment,
Upon both citizens and visitors alike,
All the year long.

Spring is one of those seasons,
Maybe the season,
Here,
In the City of Trees,
Sacramento.

It is not a romantic city.
It is,
Perhaps,
Mildly pedestrian,
A former star now eclipsed,
A backwater,
The butt of a joke.

But to see her like this,
When spring has painted her,
Vibrantly,
Exhuberantly,
And little flower petals flutter to earth,
Every minute,
As if a rainbow has shattered overhead,
And her trees,
Her glorious trees,
Of myriad shape and size,
Are reaching for the sky in verdant bliss,
Leaves near full,
Washed clean by recent rains,
It is to see her perfectly.

It could be,
That I,
A recent-ish arrival,
Am still enamored by her.
It is likely that,
In all fairness,
I suffer from a puppy-love sort of view,
Which allows me to ignore her faults,
And blemishes,
Shambling transients,
And unsavory corners.

Nevertheless,
It is spring,
And this city is a marvel.
She rests tenuously,
Yet languidly,
On the banks of,
Not one,
But two rivers,
Both of which could easily,
Quickly,
Inundate her leafy streets,
And ancient architecture.

Yet,
It is spring,
And it is,
Frankly,
Easy to be swayed by her charms.
For beneath these broad branches,
In the cool shade of her namesake trees,
It is so enticing to walk,
And gawk,
And wish that you could call her home.

And then how wonderful,
When you remember that you do.

4-26-19

Poor Man's First Class

"Would you like an upgrade?"

Not that it matters,
But what are we talking?
And how much will it be once I've paid?

I've been assigned a middle seat,
And I'm not exactly what you'd call,
The middle seat type,
So perhaps I'll give myself a treat.

The screen at check-in shows what's left.
The price is just about right,
And at twenty dollars,
It really doesn't feel like theft.

I'm looking for elbow room on the aisle,
I don't like feeling hemmed in,
And I don't want to pretend I'm a sardine,
Even if it's just for a while.

I see I'm in luck and I don't wait,
There's one in the middle of the plane,
And oh, wow! It's in an exit row!
That is great!

Once the doors have closed,
I feel like I've won the airline lottery,
Window unclaimed; my neighbor moves,
Now we both have room for our elbows.

"Upgrade? Gladly!" I say.
It may seem extravagant,
But I don't really care,
I could get used to flying this way!

4-23-19

A Little Solitude Is Not All It's Cracked Up To Be

This house,
Quiet and vacant,
Abandoned.
Home alone,
I do busy work,
To avoid feeling lonely and bored.
I clean out the fridge,
Eat all the leftovers,
I feed the dogs and do the dishes.
I empty all the trashcans.
Gather loose laundry.
I watch the news without fear.
I have no need to worry that perhaps,
The broadcast,
May contain something ugly,
That the children will hear.
Overwhelming silence,
Except for the dogs,
Who trundle about,
Lost,
Searching for their small humans,
Unable to comprehend,
The idea of object permanence.
"They are gone for now,"
I tell them.
"They will be back."
But I get it.
Like the dogs,
I feel a little adrift,
Restless,
Forsaken,
In the absence of those I love most.

4-16-19

Sancho's Pleas Ignored

"¡Buenas tardes, señor!
Your mount,
A noble steed,
Stands at the ready,"
I say to my master,
This legend,
The questionably sane,
Man of La Mancha.

"What's that you say, Panza?"
Master wheezes,
Tired,
Bleary-eyed,
Befuddled,
Closer to the crypt than the craddle.

"Your ride,"
I reply.

"But surely this is a mistake, Sancho,
For that is your donkey!
Where is my faithful Rocinante?
This is no noble steed."

"The perfect companion,"
I remind him,
"For this misguided quest."

"Misguided?"
Quixote sputters,
"¡No, no, no señor!
It is my honor,
My duty,
To vanquish these noisy giants!"

"Giants, my lord?"
I sigh sadly,
(For we have been down this path before.)
"I will remind you,"
I say,
Pointing toward the surrounding hills,
"Those are merely windmills."

Quixote squints,
For a moment he seems to see them,
Maybe,
As they are,
Just ordinary windmills.
But then he shakes his head
And he mounts the beast in a huff.

"Giants!"
He roars,
Stabbing the little donkey with his heels,
And the donkey prances away,
The old man teetering in the saddle,
Off on a fool's errand.

4-4-19

Spider's Lament

Like Emily Dickinson,
I could not stop for Death,
Or,
I should say,
I wouldn't.
But,
As it turns out,
Death made all the arrangements,
And I had no choice in the matter.

It's my fault.
We are an oft misunderstood species,
Maligned,
Suffering from poor public relations,
Known to associate with all things creepy,
And macabre.
We are universally hated and feared!
I stupidly chose to ignore this truth.
We are,
It is well-known and documented,
Unwelcome,
Despite the fact that,
Spiders like me,
Eat pests that can actually kill humans!

(Did I happen to mention that mosquitoes,
And bees,
And wasps,
As well as OTHER humans,
Kill more humans every year,
Than my kind?)

Doesn't matter, though,
Does it?

It's all my fault.
I take full responsibility for my own,
Untimely,
And unnecessary end.

It's as simple as this:

I scuttled,
Looking for food,
Into a dark,
Inviting space,
Just doing what I do,
And then everything went bright white,
Brilliant.

I froze,
My multiple eyes,
Slowly adjusting to the sudden light.

That's when Death found me,
A repulsive object of human scorn,
And I was promptly smashed with a shoe.

And so,
I became Death's companion,
Since Death is unafraid of spiders.

(I am being told,
Too late,
That there is no love for my kind,
Ever,
In this place called a "restroom."
How was I,
A spider,
Supposed to know such things?)

I will do my best to warn the others,
But,
From this side of eternity,
I make no promises.

4-2-19

On the Dusty Banks of the Rio Salado

I saw him the other day,
Not as an apparition at a seance,
Conjured by a second-rate Mrs. Rita,
Or brushing past me in a club.
I didn't see him at the mall.
He wasn't holding someone's cellphone,
Singing into it,
Like he used to do at concerts,
(And maybe still does).
He wasn't standoff-ish,
And brusque,
Trying to ignore me,
In some VIP backstage area,
Like that time,
We played together in Hayden Square.

No,
I saw him in a video clip,
On social media.
(Like we see everything these days!)
He was playing a song,
Live in the studio,
He didn't look like a rock God anymore,
He looked like someone's dad,
(By the way,
I'm aware that I too,
Look like someone's dad!)
Actually,
He kind of looks like,
That Food Network guy.
No,
Not that Guy,
The other one,
The serious,
Bespectacled one.
You know,
The guy that used to do the irreverent,
DIY cooking shows.
Anyway,
I forget his name*,
But seeing that video,
It reminded me of 90s rock,
And the little-known,
Tempe Sound!

There was a time,
When the desert blossomed,
Becoming,
(Forgive the pun),
A hotbed of sound,
A little like Seattle,
Only not as rainy,
And not so gruff or grungy.

The Tempe Sound was more cactus,
Less Pacific Northwest.
More jangly chords,
Less brooding garage rock.
¡Mas tequila!,
Less heroin.
More sunshine and melancholy sadness,
Fewer dreams.
But with the same amount of ill-advised flannel,
And the same tragic tales,
Told,
(At some dive bar, of course),
Of the ones who didn't make it.

I missed out on that Tempe by a few years.
I never saw the glory days,
Back when Mill Avenue was crawling,
With musicians,
Of every type and quality.
Back before the mid-90s rockstars-to-be,
Punched the clock on their 15 minutes.
When they were all still only plotting,
And planning,
To meet up that mission at midnight.
I never followed them,
As they traipsed boozily,
Between Long Wongs,
And The 6 East Lounge,
(Known ominously as The Beast),
Or up the street to Gibsons,
And over to the The Sun Club.
I never had to worry,
That maybe,
They'd fancy a drive,
Before things got too blurry,
And that they'd crash somewhere,
As they swerved over to Nita's.
I never had the pleasure,
Of hearing a new tune,
As it was worked out,
While having refreshments,
At the Yucca Tap Room.
Alas,
I missed those times completely.

I heard the echoes, though.
I witnessed the rusting hull,
The withered Workshop.
I walked the abandoned wreckage.
I stumbled,
Much later,
Into those establishments myself.
I stood nodding my head,
To lesser bands,
In those same beer-soaked places,
Full of memories,
And stories,
(Some of them true.)
I even rubbed shoulders with a few of the survivors.
Legends,
All.
And I heard all about the casualties,
The lamentable,
Cautionary tales of woe,
And youthful misadventure,
The twisted nature of fame,
And the quintessential tortured artist,
Flowering,
And then,
Falling apart in the desert.

Anyway,
When I saw him in that video,
It made me wonder,
Does he still let the cops chase him around?
And when they catch him,
Do they exclaim:
"Oh, sorry,
We were looking for someone else,
You look like Alton Brown*!"

3-26-19

Replacement Therapy

I used to write songs,
But I don't feel like it anymore,
Or maybe just not right now.
If I'm being honest,
I'm not sure they were all that good,
To begin with,
So,
No loss.
But maybe,
I just dont know anything anymore.
Creating something,
Out of nothing,
With rhythm and melody,
From a small buzz inside the head,
Feels like magic.
An overwhelming rush.
It was everything,
But my feedback loop is broken.
I can't hear the muse.
I've lost touch with the spark.
And my fingers,
Once so reliable,
Have forgotten all the right chords.
But maybe,
That's not important anymore.
So,
I write poems instead.
Which is much the same,
Because a poem is really just a song,
A song without the tune.
Or maybe it's the other way 'round.
And sometimes,
It is still like magic,
Words coming from the mists of my mind.
And I wonder,
Are these words mine,
Or am I merely the antenna?
Regardless,
Whether it's one or the other,
I still don't honestly know,
If they're any good.
And it doesn't matter.
The only thing that matters,
If I'm being completely honest,
Is catharsis,
The lightning strike of creativity,
The purging of inner demons,
The airing of mental laundry,
Radom thoughts,
Coalescing into ideas,
On paper,
Or in the cloud,
Yes,
The cleansing of the soul.
And if that means a song,
Or if it means a poem,
Maybe it doesn't make a difference,
And that's more important than all else.

3-31-19

Equinox

Vernal Equinox,
First day of spring,
Stock up on tissues!
The pollinating,
And,
Um,
Frolicking,
Has begun...

Here,
In this western paradise,
For weeks now,
A tickle of green has tinged the land,
And tickled my sinuses.
Trees have started to bud,
And to blossom;
To,
In a word feel,
Groovy.
A swarm,
Biblical in magnitude,
Of various insectivera,
Has descended upon our homes,
Which has been followed,
As though it were prearranged,
By a proliferation,
A mob really,
Of randy,
Marvin Gaye-listening,
Amphibians.

Today,
On this,
The scientific start of spring,
It is gray skies and showers,
But the yearly meet-and-greet,
A biological drag race,
Of competitive reproduction is,
As Mr. Samuel L. Jackson might say,
(And I'm paraphrasing here),
"On like motherbleepin' Donkey Kong!"

3-20-19

Clockwork Hoax

It's quite a cockamamie scheme,
Interrupting my slumber and dreams.
It isn't useful or fun.
This ritualized hoax is not what it seems.

A ruthless national mass hypnotism.
This task hasn't prevented a civil schism.
It's a farce, for we can't control time.
It's an exercise in Federal feudalism!

Benjamin Franklin was making a joke,
For this plan of ours would sure make him choke.
'Stead of saving on candles,
Now we're all tied up to this yoke!

Ol' Arizona has got it just right,
The same time all year and each night.
What is it we think we are saving?
Whatever it is, is not daylight!

3-10-19

Perspectives On Executive Annoyance

(An imagined conversation, in the form of a poem, in the highest office in the land...)

You called, sir? Yes, sir? You're annoyed?
But why, sir? You should be overjoyed!
All these wordy salvos being deployed,
Are just the cost of being so employed.

"Just look at the things they say.
Attacked on all sides every day."

Come now, chum, don't dismay,
Why this right here, it's the American way!

From the get go, our voices were first.
To King George we were the worst!
And even though words can hurt,
Our free speech is a not a curse.
So, sure every presidential bloke,
Who's ever stood up and spoke,
Has wished he'd had an impenetrable cloak,
To prevent a critique or a joke.
It may seem like intolerable cruelty.
Yet, we dispensed with total monarchy,
And cobbled together a new reality.
Now our leaders report to you and me.

And so, it's par for the course,
When we change riders or the horse,
Our press and voices wield such force,
There's no hiding behind closed doors.

FDR and the press often clashed.
Lyndon Johnson was clearly bashed.
The Bushes smiled, but their teeth were gnashed.
Where exactly was Cheney stashed?
Ford, depicted as buffoon.
Theodore sued to change the tune.
Andrew Jackson was a loon!
Henry Harrison, gone too soon?
Truman's doctrine was so thin.
Taft refused to let Arizona in.
Madison ignored inept Wilkinson,
And let's not speak of Jefferson.
Reagan made of teflon coating.
Kennedy and all that boating.
Years of tears and we're still voting.
Obama's drama is worth noting.
And Clinton? Too easy. Let's not waste the time!
Under Lincoln, half the country resigned.
Even Washington had his principles maligned,
Not terribly long after the Constitution was signed.

So, you see, this is nothing new.
In a country like ours it's what we do.
We cut and jab at the lucky few.
Our words are honed sharp and true.
And that is how our stripes remain,
Through the years of growth and pain.
One man's sorrow is a nation's gain,
When we question in liberty's name.
Beneath this beacon, this shining tower,
Political animals should rightfully cower.
Citizens on watch every hour.
Our responsibility to speak truth to power.

3-5-19

Multicolored Circular Arcs and Narwhals

Doth we have no humanity?
These are strange days,
A seeming return to times medieval.
Great mobs,
Clamoring to glimpse the executions,
In the shadow of the cathedral.

Oh,
To be poignantly perfect,
All one needs is a Twitter feed!
But should we,
Contribute verses perverse,
When our faults are in our deeds?

Ignorant,
I wish to be,
Blotting out the fuss and rattle,
When mere words,
Not to mention devious actions,
Are cause for all out battle!

Alas and alack!
(I've always wished to say that.)
And it fits because I am at a loss,
With what to do.
And who's in charge?
And who wants to be the boss?

But we can't play dumb,
Or ignore the truth,
At least that's what I thought.
What shall we contribute, then?
Maybe love.
Verily, it's all we've got.

Yes, better it is,
For us to remember,
Neighbors need our kindness.
Better would we be,
To remember love,
To let our better natures guide us.

And anon,
(I mean soon--someday, really soon),
We shall overcome this hate.
Yet,
Let us hope,
That in the end it will not be too late.

For with a little more effort,
A little less,
"Us v. them,"
We can be not enemies,
Perhaps a bit more cordial,
Maybe even friends.

Then rainbows,
And unicorns,
They shall decorate the halls.
Or if you'd prefer the scientific:
Multicolored circular arcs,
And a blessing of narwhals.

3-4-19