Weekly Poems: A Poem About Death and More
YEARS TURN THE PAGES; THE BOOK REMAINS
Years turn the pages; the book remains.
No one can see the life it contains.
The story is over; it sits on a shelf
Outside of time, complete in itself.
Ah! Could we know! But never we will.
Now it is sealed, silent and still.
CHRISTMAS REALLY ISN’T ABOUT TOYS
Christmas really isn’t about toys,
However much we love them, young and old.
Reductions in the fat of Christmas day
In time restore its vigor and its health.
So let us not display our absent wealth,
Though children should have ample chance to play.
More sweet and joyous music must be sung,
And thoughts of peace and mercy make their way
Silent and uncluttered through the noise.
CHRIS AND I WENT OUT AWHILE BACK
Chris and I went out awhile back.
It didn’t work–I really don’t know why.
Some unacknowledged dream was out of whack,
Went spinning off, and so we let it die.
Sometimes we attribute things to fate
When it’s us, though we won’t notice it.
Chris and I are back again–it’s great!
We’ve both changed, and now we seem to fit.
I can’t explain the happiness I find:
Chris smiles at me and something makes me glow.
Mysteries on mysteries unwind;
The deeper in we see, the less we know.
For now I think I’ll just enjoy the ride;
Love Chris to bits, but still keep watch inside.
HAPPINESS DEPENDS ON LIGHTING LIGHTS
Happiness depends on lighting lights,
As what one does without reflects within.
People plead the poignance of their plights,
Pleased to play the hapless harlequin.
Yet one must purify the sacred temple,
Haul the lamps up, clean them, set them out,
Acting to await the miracle,
Neither seized by fear nor free of doubt.
Underneath all miracles is faith,
Knowing not, but hoping what might be,
Kindled by the will, though pain and death
Assault with darkness all that one can see
Here, where all is here miraculously.
HAPPINESS IS RARELY MELODY
Happiness is rarely melody
As other voices jockey for the lead.
Perhaps it is most comfortable with bass,
Pleased to underline the others’ grace,
Yielding to intensity and need,
Holding up a fragile harmony.
On holidays, however, it becomes
Less self-effacing, stepping forth to sing,
In moments filled with labor, love, and longing,
Deep descants on the beauty of belonging;
After which, again retiring,
Yet not before the harried heart takes wing,
Softly it blends into what strain comes.
SHOW ME ALL THE BOUNTY OF YOUR GIVING
Show me all the bounty of your giving:
Each cornucopia spills out in vain
As some of the sweet happiness of living
Sinks deep into a dry and dusty plain.
Of labor and of love there is no ending,
Nor can we ever pocket our reward.
Some tender that we’re tempted into spending
Goes for gifts that others can’t afford.
Remember that the Earth’s a single sea,
Equable in what one takes and gives.
Each act redeems its value naturally,
Taking grace from everything that lives.
In giving there is rich and varied treasure,
Nor more nor less than taking’s vivid pleasure,
Granting ample joy to those who care,
Subject to what pain they choose to share.
HAPPY NEW YEAR! TO THOSE WHO WILL HAVE NONE
Happy New Year! To those who will have none,
A wish that knows too well it cannot be.
Perhaps one ought not wish so futilely;
Perhaps one ought, that such not be alone.
Yearning is the price one pays for hope,
Nor can one hope unless one would endure.
Each futile wish makes paradise more sure,
Widening the world’s supernal scope.
Yet there are those who find such wishes cheap,
Easy substitutes for sacrifice.
A wish for good is more than merely nice,
Restoring winds that stir the unguent deep.
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