Twenty Eyes and Twenty Ears

Twenty eyes and twenty ears
Watch my footsteps as I make them
Wait to see if I mistake them.
They have followed me for years.
Thirty ears and thirty eyes;
They, I see, are all around me,
Always trying to confound me.
They my purposes disguise.
Forty eyes are watching me,
Seeing what I’m doing always,
Limiting my thought in small ways.
In their bondage am I free?
Fifty eyes and fifty more
Take my words and scrutinize them,
Change my thoughts so I despise them
Still I claim them as before.
Sixty eyes are in my mind.
Always they have been inside me,
Watching those who walk beside me.
Have I always been so blind?

Inspired by the book 1984.

The Flower

A flower on the roadside lay
Its petals to the sky.
I would have passed and let it stay
For time was short that summer day.
I stopped and held it anyway
Yet did not know the reason why.

Against the backdrop of the road,
It grew defiantly.
Where here, so out of place, it showed
That life can thrive and make abode
Where wind and rain and snow erode
The place where it was set to be.

I pondered on that flower rare
With time I didn’t own,
And thoughtfully began to stare
Upon the flower lying there
While wond’ring how a thing so fair
Had on that dirty roadside grown.

I went along the road to see
If other flowers grew.
Beside that road, it seemed to me
That weeds grew up quite readily.
Of flowers I saw but two or three
And wondered why there were so few.

I took one with me as I went
Preserving it with care.
I held it as a monument
To lessons learned and time well spent.
That evening by my bed I bent
And thanked the power that put them there.

The Artist

It is simple to see,
to cast one’s eyes where he may.
Who, then can tell
what there is to see?
Greatness falls from the sky like snow,
and it goes unnoticed.
Imagination,
how fickle it is,
how commanding!
Do we notice that
             we
have that power?
And control it?
It is our power of
creation
that we see and use.
How few there are
who can truly see themselves.
Who can see the power
of Vision
besides those who look?

Come Inside

Come inside now, to my table
Though I’ve nothing to prepare
Know you well that were I able
I would fill this empty table,
Which sits now before you bare.
Here inside my house the laughter
Never is in short supply.
Let the banter touch the rafter!
In our friendship and our laughter
Truly does our richness lie.
As we sit beside the fire
In each other’s company
All our troubles seem less dire.
To the heavens we aspire
While the hours pass pleasantly.

A Walk Outside

In restlessness I sit inside my house
With energy infused inside my bones
Exhorting me to let my labors wait
And breathe the freshness of the outside air.

An Evergreen in Snow

A starry blur of white undaunted came
And softened, smoothed the gentle countryside.
Creation marvels at her own white flame,
Her appetite for beauty satisfied.
Below a hill, serenely standing strong,
An evergreen, concealed beneath the white
Now emanates a silent winter song
And dances in the evening's waning light.
Enveloped by a soft consuming glow,
The glittering boughs portray a mood serene.
Though laden low with weight of thickset snow,
It stands a noble marvel to be seen.
The Master's sculpture breaks above the ground,
With all of winter's glory it is crowned.

Messy Pete

Messy Pete began to eat
A dusty, dirty grimy treat.
He found too late that what he ate
Was also on a dirty plate.
It was a mess; I must confess
His room was filled with dirtiness.
What caused this scene that’s so obscene
Was Messy Pete would never clean.
He’d never try to clean that sty.
His dirty clothes all piled high.
His underwear was here and there.
His toys were scattered everywhere.
He had a knack for losing track
Of where he’d left his school sack.
I’ll tell you now the story how
Pete overcame the mess somehow.
It was the treat which Messy Pete
Decided that he’d try to eat.
Just one small lick so very quick
Began to make him awfully sick.
So sick, in fact he coughed and hacked
So hard his jaw bone almost cracked.
His fever burned and then he turned
So green his mom became concerned.
He lay in bed, his father said
“You’re lucky, son, that you’re not dead.
The doctor called and he’s appalled
He says your mess here must be solved.
If you don’t zoom to clean your room
It could spell out your sudden doom!”
Pete was aware as he lay there
His room was filled with odors rare.
“This mess,” thought he, “is killing me.
If I get better I’ll agree
To be the best, above the rest
At making cleanliness my quest.”
He hadn’t lied. From then he tried
To clean his room with certain pride.
And what completes this tale of Pete’s?
He’ll wash his hands before he eats.

A R T

How is life explored by stories,
Quietly composed in books?
Why do poems give enjoyment
To the one who deeply looks?
Even words of tiny size
Oft show virtues to the wise.

When we gaze upon a painting,
Oft a voice speaks to the soul.
Paint and canvas, both displaying
Semblance of things physical.
We, the subjects in them, see
Life laid out exquisitely.

Why, when soundlessness is conquered,
Filled by noise of symphonies,
Are our senses seized by grandeur
Of pervasive melodies?
Music is a jewel of sound
Which explorers keep when found.

Addicted to Poetry

Poetry is an odd thing.
Sometimes it has no verse,
With no rhythm,
And no meter,
And flows much like prose.
It may, however, have artistic beats,
A pattern followed with deliberate care
Composed of meter, cadence, beat or swing,
With lengthy sentences and careful thought.
And poems, sometimes,
Are peppered with rhymes.
And as the fruit in fall adorns the trees,
A poem may be filled with similes.
Or else the fruit of purpose from its core
Can plant in poems the seed of metaphor.
Moreover a couplet in deep contemplation
Can banter around with personification.
But the best part of poems, obviously,
Is when you include a hyperbole.
Alternatively, alliteration also adds appeal.
In the end it all combines,
Every aspect in its place.
This conglomerate of lines,
In amenity and grace,
Most effectively invokes
Such a thrill inside my brain.
Fire of fantasy it stokes
'Till delight I can't contain.
In a word (or maybe three):
I
Love
Poetry

The Last of Effects

So often one can assume
that the world is not
In the palm of his hand.
To become as we must,
that we cannot see
the End of the path,
and to see is to
become
and in Becoming, the
last of effects
reaches out to empty paws,
and the vacant wanderings
of a mindless crowd.

This is the path
doomed to become
that which is the pastime of
those who cannot become
that which they desire.
Overcoming the last of effects
is the goal of those who are destined to fail.
Forgotten roads lead to
a destination even longer removed,
and life causes
the last of effects.