To my dismay, it’s misting here today;
We really could have used some proper rain.
Instead of play in puddles or in spray,
One must negotiate unsafe terrain.
For when in drought, and it is misting out,
The oil and dirt rise, but don’t wash away.
So do not shout, if, when you walk about,
You skid and slide, your limbs in disarray.
Though one may hate mist’s properties innate,
The way it thwarts umbrellas on the breeze
Is rather great, though it makes one irate,
And mist up noses makes one prone to sneeze.
O playful mist who descends and ascends,
We hope you bring your bigger droplet friends.
As brains and hands purport to show a split
In dominance, so does one’s politics;
In habit we’re reluctant to admit
How frequently philosophies are mixed.
Such things as privacy and central power
Depend on who’s perceived to be in charge
And cynicism all too often sours
Our views of our opponents small and large.
So when some seek the power to deny
The freedoms they enjoy to everyone,
The light of scrutiny reveals the lie
That unfair access protects anyone.
Through principle discrimination mellows,
Engendering remarkable bedfellows.
Desire can be an inconvenient thing,
That strikes in unexpected afternoons,
Whose sun and scents remind one of the spring,
That metamorphoses into monsoon–
Periphery consolidates into
A self-perpetuating lustiness
Which manifests in focusing one’s view
In ways that manners say should be repressed.
But I have the advantage, so it seems,
Of walking through the world without a sign
Of what is going on within my jeans,
The secret fire whose burn is only mine,
I smolder ’til at liberty for action.
Delay shall serve to heighten satisfaction.
I thank the powers for this middling day,
Which started with anticipatory tears,
That grew into resolve to always play
With creatures that I hope to have for years,
Which made me impotent to rise and leave
For work, when to my lap Giovanni leapt
But running for the bus, I couldn’t grieve
The presence of the dog for whom I’d wept.
I did the necessary things at work,
And musically, I did just well enough
To mask the studying I might have shirked,
Though it was unequivocally rough.
And though the day left much to be desired
Perhaps tomorrow I will be inspired.
Inspiration: i thank You God for most this, e. e. cummings
To hear a live performance of a song
That you remember from a certain time,
It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t long
Ago, you yearn for it to be sublime,
To sound exactly as it did the day
You first allowed the music in your soul.
So when the opening chords begin to play,
You fear that it no longer makes you whole,
Because the singer’s voice is rough and tired,
His high notes do not soar as they once did,
His touring band’s quite recently acquired,
He looks like an adult and not a kid;
Yet he makes miracles beyond your ken;
And makes the old song new for you again.
As hunger makes the most prosaic meal
Seem an exquisite feast, so also does
A satisfying workout make one feel
Significantly more than just a buzz–
The sky seems bluer, sunshine twice as bright,
The traffic and the breeze accompaniment,
Within a soundtrack singing of delight,
Reflecting all-encompassing content.
But when delayed exhaustion settles in,
That golden glow becomes a leaden weight,
Enthusiasm turns into chagrin,
Since urgent plans will simply have to wait.
And though the world’s not yours yet, to your sorrow,
Take heart that you can try again tomorrow.
When we were wed, it was a civil do,
With ten, including us and celebrant.
And that simplicity I do not rue,
Except one item after the event.
In ancient times, a nuptial song was sung
Outside the wedding chamber for the pair.
From that and Spenser inspiration sprung,
And ten years on, I’ll write my own and share:
Now welcome night, and welcome we sweet sleep;
You shoo the dogs away and warm the sheets
While I kick dirty clothes into a heap,
That my approach with grace might be replete.
Our lips meet in that jasmine-scented night,
We sigh in pleasure, then turn off the light.
On schadenfreude I’m ambivalent;
It may give glee, but leaves behind no peace.
And while it lets old irritations vent,
It breeds new ones that fester sans release.
So when I see a skilled contestant fail,
I’m torn between a wince of empathy
And rattling off some questionable tale
Exempting him or her from sympathy.
It’s flattering to think we can decide
If people are deserving of success;
And easy then, their talents deride,
But it’s contempt that’s born of bitterness.
There’s balance to be found within the shoes
Of those who win as well as those who lose.
Accomplishment and power are on display
Upon a dazzling international stage,
Where medals hang in glittering array,
And myths are made to last a golden age.
But dreams and dedication aren’t the key,
They’re just a fraction of what gets you there.
And endless practice is no guarantee;
You must have talent that’s beyond compare.
But if your schuss leaves much to be desired,
Perceive the worth in things at which you shine.
Do not discount the skill that is required,
My gift’s not yours, your genius isn’t mine.
And those with unsung skills do well because
Success is unrelated to applause.
A mockingbird is not a nightingale,
Although he also sings his song by night,
With varied voice the world he will assail,
In hopes a mate may on his branch alight.
His repertoire of stolen melodies
He recapitulates without a blush,
And serenades through darkened hours with ease,
No matter how much one desires hush.
Do lady mockingbirds adore the noise
Of car alarms and mobile telephones?
Or does he hope to chase off other boys,
With ceaseless twitterings within his zone?
Through earplugs all the night I hear him cheep,
Blurring the line between awake and sleep.
Inspiration: John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale