Into the Refrigerator - Poem

Ev’ry time I open the refrigerator door,
it must be to see the light.
Why else do I stand in contemplation
wondering why I opened it again.
I delve within, find a morsel,
gulp it down—for a moment satisfied.
Ten minutes later, my hungry soul
is back again, bathing in the cool light,
the empty promise of food for the body,
but not the soul.

Congress over-reacting!

Only two (2) (that's tight, only two) of 22,000 deaths in Toyotas last year were vehicle malfunctions: the rest were driver malfunctions. Why is congress wasting time on recalls (which demonstrates conscientiousness) with important things to do--FOR THE PEOPLE (which is real conscientiousness).

Also, a tear stained lady said her Lexus involuntarily went 100 miles per hour, she was so scared, and: "why is Toyota so greedy?" Couldn't someone who drives an expensive Lexus also be called greedy?

First Breath

The first breath

catches me unaware

the first touch stops—

then gets me started.

The first kiss

I remember,

then every kiss

remembers the first.

The first word said

in the heat of love

tells the first lie.

The last word

tells the truth.

The first love

lives fondly

in the heart,

clothed in the light

of young mornings

when breath was fresh—

or remembered so.

****

Down the Tube

The afternoons, we watch TV,

our eyes glued to Another World,

pretending it’s reality.

We spend The Days Of Our Lives

stuck in quiet desperation,

hoping for, in The Guiding Light,

glimpses of a real relation.

As the World Turns beneath us,

rolling heedlessly on and on,

and All My Children are neglected,

hypnotized, automatons.

So we sit and stare, letting

mind and blood congeal,

aptly forgetting:

if there is One Life To Live,

make it real.

*****

The Miniature Calligrapher - Poem

There was an artist named Homer
who could write on the head of a pin,
but—as small as it was—
wasn’t good enough for him.
How many times can you write, he asked
the Lord’s Prayer on the head of a pin,
and the Twenty-Third Psalm on the shaft,
without seeking new worlds to conquer,
without finding new standards to pass.
So smaller and smaller he printed,
and finer and finer his tools:
the hair of a bee his pen,
his tablet a mustard seed,
his work the sayings of men.
For who, you might wonder,
and where, and when?
But artists do what they must,
the purpose comes from within.
One day while eating a sandwich,
the ants were scavenging crumbs.
Ah, said Homer, a challenge.
To the open mind, it comes!
He gathered the crumbs and waited
until they were hard as a rock
and with the finest of pens,
wrote messages for the flock.
The ants collected his work
and took it away to their nest
parading this proud message
to whom it suited best—
God save the queen...
God save the queen...
God save the queen...
God save the queen...

*****