I used to get so angry,
Hulk angry,
Belligerent and uncontrollable,
Over all the things,
I felt powerless to address.
Which was everything.
It was easy to get riled up,
But you can only apologize,
Repeatedly and profusely,
Before the ones you love give up,
And turn away when nothing changes.
Because they will.
Anger burns,
Wastes energy,
Wastes time,
Destroys what matters most,
Leaving you spent,
Hollow,
And alone.
4-15-19
"To thine own self be true."
Ill-advised,
Self-serving advice,
Which Polonius gave to Hamlet,
The Prince of Denmark,
Who promptly went mad!
But what of that?
Why not go mad,
When the world seeks to make you over,
And stuff you into a box?
(And it is into a box,
One way or another,
Where we all land in the end.)
We can't all burn out brightly,
In tragic magnificence,
Leaving glorious wreckage in our wake.
And we can't all be world changers,
Leaving behind a lasting impression,
An enduring impact,
An well-regarded legacy,
Commemorated by a nice plaque,
Or a larger-than-life statue,
And a short paragraph in a history book.
So what do we do with our time on Earth?
Grocery shopping?
Yardwork?
Career?
Laundry?
Taxes?
Perhaps,
Spending our days,
Obliviously tending our own little gardens,
Creating space,
Where,
With luck,
Our little flowers of creation can bloom,
Is the true goal of life.
Shutting our ears to dismissive,
Negative thoughts and criticisms.
To remind ourselves of our own vision,
Our own path.
For no one but ourselves knows the way,
Or the why,
Or the passion of our souls.
No one else can tell us how to live.
We all have our own choices to make,
While also remembering,
(And this is key),
To make those choices kindly.
Let the acquirers,
The obtainers and gainers,
The fame hounds,
Have their berth.
They will tell you,
Smugly,
To make more of your life,
As they stumble drunkenly,
Self-satisifed with power,
In comfort,
With hollow madness,
To the grave.
(Because,
Let us be frank,
That is the destiny for one and all.)
But what better endeavour than to make?
Not profits,
Or widgets,
Or ends
But anything that reflects the good,
The love,
The shared experience of this worldly,
And brief,
Lifetime.
We must occasionally ponder,
In my opinion,
The purpose of this life.
It must be different for each and all,
And yet,
In the end,
Not so different at all.
For we will,
One day,
Walk alone,
Naked,
Burdened by nothing but our souls,
Through the final portal.
What lies beyond?
That is a good question,
(Which Shakespeare explored already),
But the answer does not matter,
Not nearly as much,
As the answer to the first question,
What to do?
What to do?
I choose,
Perhaps misguidedly,
To spend my time filling up the world,
Not with monuments to myself,
But with goodness.
Should I not seek to follow my own path?
If not,
Then whose path should I follow?
Why stay in line?
Stack my meager share of gold,
To what end?
Just an end?
What you gain in this life,
It surely won't matter in the next,
If,
Indeed,
There may be a next.
Now is all we've got,
And it is worth more than gold.
Spend it wisely.
Share it kindly.
Plant good things.
Spread the seeds of your own joy.
That can't be wrong.
It takes courage then,
To stand and expose your heart,
Your soul,
Your very essence.
The world is full of unkind tongues,
Wagging,
Lashing at the puny,
The small and unafraid.
We are easy prey,
Lovely targets.
We'll all be judged,
On our faults and foibles,
Our mistakes and failures,
Our success,
Or lack thereof.
That is out of our control.
I would,
Given a choice,
Choose to be judged by my contributions,
No matter how insignificant,
To the beautification,
Of my small patch of the universe.
4-12-19
In springtime,
when the weather shows off,
(as if in competition to become,
the very definition of perfection),
and the sun is warm,
and so bright,
(just right),
it is hard to care,
one iota,
about the responsibilities,
and dull requirements of adulthood.
Come to think of it,
perhaps,
that is the purpose of spring.
4-9-19
Out of nowhere,
A sudden supernova in the sky,
Spokesman for a generation,
Burdened with the weight of expectations,
Too young too die.
Another generation come and gone,
Never knowing what was missed,
Only echoes on a radio station,
Of an overnight sensation,
Reduced to a name on a list.
When the wave broke,
And the price was too high,
We ignored the desperation,
Thought it was a revelation,
Too young to die.
Cryptic to the end,
Damaged and bold,
Hellbent on damnation,
The voice of a generation,
That will never grow old.
4-5-19
"¡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
A perfect vision,
A perfect dream,
From an imperfect man.
A legacy we tilt toward still,
Even as new bigotry sprouts,
Like ugly weeds,
In the fields cleared of past prejudices.
But we soldier on,
Because love and equality will prevail.
Because that dream,
Powerful as ever,
Still calls to us from the mountaintops.
Because a world that welcomes all,
In freedom,
And peaceful openness,
Is worth building.
We gather at the table of brotherhood,
Even as we bicker and complain.
We sit down together,
Even as old wounds won't heal.
We embrace old enemies as friends,
And we still have miles to go.
But that perfect dream reverberates still,
Through every valley,
Every town and city,
Every heart,
Slowly thawing the cold shoulders,
And melting away old dividing lines.
This vision continues to grow,
And inspire.
It can't be snuffed out by a bullet.
This vision,
This mission,
This perfection,
It's what we have been working toward,
As a species,
Since the dawn of time.
It is this: Together we are better.
We have miles to go,
But we're getting there.
4-4-19
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
