As I lay me down to sleep,
My head in pillows soft and deep,
And only barely half awake,
The muse gives me a sudden shake.
She bids me take up page and pen,
Sit up, turn on the light, and then,
Write down my idea right away,
For it won’t wait ’til break of day.
But seriously, this happened last night. I have an idea, and if I don’t write it down that instant, it’s gone by morning. Sucks, but it’s worth it to keep that notebook by my bed.
These days are green and lush,
the lake invisible from the road
once more,
as milkweed fluff
or spider silks drift
restlessly on the warming breeze.
Leaves spread, flickering
even over city streets, and shaded
sparsely
on the sidewalk all I can think of–
‘a little goat-footed balloon man whistling far and wee’,
and the tinkling ice cream cart
around the corner, hawking sweet bliss
before the afternoon splits open wide in soft rain.
A cool treat it is; rain pours
more often than not, trapping me,
likely on a hike,
in a world that describes exactly what e. e. cummings meant by “mudluscious,”
and it’s transient spring.
There’s a hearty crop of political yard signs growing in my area, in anticipation of local elections. Unfortunately, this means my next poetic offering with be slightly ranting and full of political meanderings. Not sorry.
A slip of the tongue can
upend nations,
shatter continents,
rend fragile peace.
We all have itching trigger fingers,
be it a retort on Twitter
or the report of a rifle
or a knee-jerk reaction
to the rabid bipartisans
on the news.
Gleefully reveling in another’s misery,
not seeking their good,
yet touting our own bleeding hearts.
We need a revolution of thought.
Moving mountains takes time,
rock by rock,
or by dynamite–that is,
it can be accomplished.
Moving hearts, well…
that is a choice to let your own heart be moved.
The mountain mover cannot
budge a hard heart.
Ideas and Inkstains 