Threadbare and Raveling — a poem

Both sides are a frayed
mess — this comforter past
its use — so old, glory faded, left
out too long in harsh light.

Perhaps the center still holds;
perhaps something smaller
will suffice. It will never return
to what it once was.

                                  It won’t hold

Stitched together, created
wonderfully, of many separate
pieces. Now beauty undone,
                                undone, undone…

united no more.


* * *

Written some time ago.

Before someone misinterprets this poem as “hankering for the Good Old Days,” let me say that I don’t believe in good old days… or bad old days. They were and are no more.

What this poem can mean is many things depending on your mindset — a new unity, a return to civility, a desire to not see the ship dismantled while we’re still on the ocean…. Many things. You are free to read into it what you see. I’m free to laugh and shake my head… while we can still claim that this is the land of the free.

The Church of Whatever — a poem

Welcome to the church of whatever
floats your boat. No sermons, no guilt,
no liturgical monotony. Baptism never!
No redemption or Christ’s blood spilt.

The church of happy thoughts always,
and our fellowship meals are catered.
Musically blue, the word is paraphrase,
our deity diverse is patered and matered.

Welcome to the church of whatever
gets you through the night, thank god!
We won’t judge your quirks, never —
but accept you as long as you’re odd.


* * *

The Sunday Muse #161

Down the Rabbit Hole — a poem


Imagine a rabbit nibbling grass
out by the portable classrooms
of a city high school —
the students, raised on technology,
immersed in STEM curriculum,
staring blankly at what clearly isn’t
AI and what doesn’t fit into the laws
of probability, unless you account
for an infinite number of variables;
perhaps chaos theory enters into it.

Many of the students will glance
but not perceive. It requires too great
a paradigm shift to observe and recognize.

But then there is that one student
who sees, smiles up at me as I hold
my classroom door open, and says,

“A bunny.”

That child will suffer greatly in this
world and conceivably become a poet.