When their bad habits
or whatever it is they do
begins to destroy them
you may look at them with disdain
and wonder why they don’t stop it
or if they can’t stop it.
You think: if you were in their shoes
you’d do better than they.
You’re dismayed that they keep it up.
You can’t figure
why they can’t figure
and you feel superior
after your compassion fails.
You can forget them
if they are not too close to you
and if they are
then pity you, too.

COINCIDENCE
ACCIDENT
PROVIDENCE
SHIT HAPPENS
GOOD LUCK
BAD LUCK
GOD’S WILL
THERE AIN’T NO GOD

When IT happened
your mind was already programmed to respond.

You learned early
what to think and what to say.

Later on
you may have changed your mind

Circumstances
need an explanation
unless you lost your need
to explain .

The wind was resting
and the trees and tall grasses
spoke differently to me
than when in motion.
Walking along the silent path
I heard no sound
and saw no motion.
Only my footsteps intruded.
The birds did not fly about
neither did they grace the dawn with song.
It was close to being eerie –
as if something were waiting to happen.
By the time I turned around
to wander homeward
the slightest breeze touched my forehead.
Then, three crows climbed into the sky
from a nearby pond
and their cawing broke the spell.
A rabbit dashed in front of me
and I felt as if the world had been turned on again.

I like to fry bacon
and likewise like to eat it.
But I’ve had moments
when the spirits of pigs
have caused me to waiver.
They come to me pleading
suggesting to me that beef is better.
Cattle sometimes haunt me
and urge me to choose poultry.
Chickens encourage me to think of lamb.
I can understand their points of view
and were I on the menu
I’d be haunting, too.

When I step into the tunnel made of trees
early in the morning
I often take a stick
and use it as a wand
to ward off spider webs
that in the past
have laid themselves upon my forehead.
Invisible, they cling to us intruders
who mean no harm, but harm.
Surely we alarm the little ones
whose threads annoy us
just enough to make us fuss.
How they must regard the walkers
who destroy their fragile work
is a matter seldom pondered.

I don’t know where the forgotten go
when they’ve left my mind.
When it seems they’ve gone forever
they sometimes strangely reappear
triggered by some occasion
or some sight or sound.
Then I remember –
remember that I’d forgotten
and then I begin to wonder
whatever happened to them.

Soon I’ll forget this poem I write.
I expect that you will, too.
Likely it will vanish forever
and go where all things go
that aren’t retained.

Too often
I’ll hear  some words
but won’t be
listening –
will let the sound
intended to communicate
be wasted by the one
who makes the effort.
‘Tis a fault
I think
is being slowl
overcome.

I know
the feeling
of being poorly heard
for I’ve spoken words
I know
have missed their target
despite the fact
my aim is getting better.

My father
mowed the grass about his house
‘til he was nearly eighty-nine.
I have my doubts that I’ll surpass him
but I’ll try.

If that should happen
the year will be 2016.
Maybe I will pull the mower’s starter cord
and walk around the lawn
that doesn’t care a thing
about my prowess or my age
and then my heart will fail
and my body decorate the grass
as 911 is called.

T’will be a wondrous way
to end what long ago  began.

Most of us
are pretty good
at camouflage.
Though we allow
our names to be employed
along with certain facts
revealing just enough
to satisfy the folks
who make inquiries
we refrain
from yielding information
we’d prefer to stay unknown.

We have some need to be
where we can let our guards down
and let ourselves be seen
as to what and who we really are.

As water quenches thirst
so friendship meets another need
and we are fortunate indeed
if we have found it.

With the television off
the lamp that shines upon this writing page
is featured in its screen –
still life reflected
picking up the colors
and the contours of the shade.
No sound — no motion –
a space I often see
when I am thinking here in this recliner
gathering thoughts
before they form a poem.

If I  should have to choose
between this quiet screen
and the one that brings the world to me
I’d opt for silence.