I wrote it while flying cross-country at which point food and drink became more important. The clock kept ticking. By the time dinner had finished, it was nearly time for bed, and I just plain forgot the poem. (But will he post one tonight?…)
Sing, Muse!
Come, Muse! Grace these cells laden, encumbered, bracken- masked, alone Swing Inspiration's sword, cut these bonds which cruelly imprison. Sing! May these cells quiver for joys just now birthed, for new connections made, for purpose kindled, for feelings restored.
Severely compromised immune systems require bubbles for environmental safety. What will protect us from our world's toxicity? What bubbles have we built which protect? Which ones trap us in noxiousness?
Missing my old choir buddy who died last December. He always, always, stayed deeply involved in life. In his 80’s, having just beat his battle with cancer, he trained for our local crisis hotline and began counseling the suicidal and the abuse victim. Anyway, thought of him today in mass, and this poem began.
November 2025
Why his clarity, his ocular spark, so near does death's shadow creep? Others, with near-dead eyes, long encumbered by that dark shadow, seem to have surrendered. What? Something. That spark, that signal, that engagement. Oddly, we note both say similar words: "I'm ready to die. Take me, any time," but our engaged example has said it all his life.
The Lord will keep your foot from stumbling. —Psalm 121:3a
Simultaneously he believed in volition and predestination. Quoting popular humor he noted, "No single raindrop believes it's responsible for the flood." Ever drops of his life accumulated Submerging possibilities until his life-as-sailing-bark found only one harbor, only one course. "Certainly I could refuse that harbor, this line," he thought while he beat course straight for it.
A recent sit on the porch yielded too many “morning” poems for one day. Herewith…
I sat in morning's glory: Sun on my left shoulder. Squirrels, possessed, scampered below, imitating smaller chipmunks. Finches swooped from roof to feeder, then returned. One belligerent wren whistled insistently. Towhee sang softly, Wren's backup singer. Suddenly bird-laughter through dense pines. Pileated woodpecker taunted from his shadowy safety, hidden. Sun limned dawn's clouds, painted our laurel. I wondered: could daytime meet My morning's grand promises?
In an effort to write a 31st poem be the end of July 31st, I offer up this wacky little number. It suggests to me I’ll rewrite it one day, but I think it plays well enough to post. Let me know if you agree; let me down easy if you don’t!
Buckaroo Banzai in dimensions eight, Cannonball Run, pray for roads that are straight. Diamonds Are Forever, but memories fade. Old age resembles a slip into shade. Memories clamor over thoughts for today They seem truly meaningful, but never play With younger crowds climbing Memory's stair Who'll discover old age when they're least aware. Experience once built riches to hold, But today their accrual equals fool's gold. I live in this land of depth, of meaning, Until I slip off into Life's last evening.
Joh Brunner’s The Shockwave Rider sought to show a near-future version of what constant change would look like, basing this premise on Alvin Toffler’s non-fictional book, Future Shock. In the process, however, I’ve believed more and more that he foresaw what our society has turned into 50 years since the book was published.
You wrote of youths walking tightropes over alligator pits, spectators screaming, "Fall! Fall!" all for "fun," for 'cash considerations.'
Do you recognize us now, John?
Show after 'reality' show trumpets screaming contestants. We live through damaged people baring their emotional problems all for prize money, that get-out-of-jail-free excuse for any type of boorishness. Inevitably it creeps into our society where it's okay to scream at someone if it's justifiable. John, we discover in your story that everyone breaks down, no one has privacy, that drugs keep us happy, docile, that society breaks into cults curated for profit, that criminals run what seemed to be our government.
We live secret lives hiding behind masks of mutual pleasantries as we walk our dogs, stretch our legs, work quietly in our yards. But these yards keep secrets poorly. They reveal us to our world more clearly than we could ourselves.
Eastward my neighbor's carefully curated lawn, shrubs, flowers give way to substantial but well-contained wildness, trees, vines, anything which chooses to grow there. "He bites off no more than chewable, this one," says his yard. "He values order, beauty, ornamentation. His dogs bark freely—why not? They come when he calls, they serve him. Who needs more?" I cannot see his front yard: perhaps something deeper? I think not; well-maintained in back means more so in front.
Southward lies bare minimum. Years ago, ten or more, she planted irises 'round her mailbox. Nothing else blooms, front or back, which can be seen from street or another's yard. In back lies one small patch of grass, some flowering trees. Hidden deeply in vine-shrouded solitude lurks her tool shed, never visited, never needed. Twice each month she brings in mowers to keep her lawn in check. She limps to deck, to her car. I surmise once someone else lived with her who took more interest.
Northward lies ambition, community, family. Just prior to pandemic's pause, its yard under new management, benches appeared around one fire pit. Party lights dangled between trees, firewood racks popped up along their back fence, which received repairs inside one year. Next they tore off rotten wood, remade their basement, attached two decks amazing for their sturdiness, their beauty. "When Jesus comes back, those decks will still be there," he told me. No lawn appeared in back after previous residents let chained dogs wear it down. Instead, frisbee golf came. Camping gear occupied some space. Everything about it screams "Family! Friends! Comfort!"
Here? Our yard underwent metamorphosis as I allowed 'natural' grass to grow unchecked until I realized its invasive nature. Then, shaggy unkemptness gave way to nothing-but-garden. Its haphazardly located plants reveal how poorly my dreams get realized. Our back yard, torn asunder by summer's torrents, reveals how ill- conceived our landscaper's plans, leaving nothing but soil to wash away...while revealing my trust in what others promise me. Now, unwanted green strangers laugh at me: "Go ahead, pull us up! We have more numbers, more patience than you. We will prevail." And so they shall. My yard says, "Good intentions, poor follow-through. Perhaps some sense of romance."
Green and gold (that’s its name) in our back yard. April 2026.
One poem closer to equaling July’s date. Can I make it? Not extremely pleased with some of these offerings, but they’re passable, and they’re certainly authentic: I don’t have time to dress them up!
July 2026
Morning, I'm full of promises seldom kept. Game show brilliance gives way to cartoon gibberish. Soulful insight yields to hard-hearted logic, then to weepy emotions. Gemstone in morn's peeking sun. If flaws perfect diamonds, I must be priceless.
all the voices in my head 