The Most Difficult Thing to Do

When we witness the violence that people commit

We declare that these monsters we cannot permit.

Yet it’s strange that we humans will never admit

That they also are humans, not demons from myth.


It is humans who rip away mother from child

And the same who would trample a fellow when riled.

And the instant we glance at the skulls we have piled

We will know in our hearts that our race is defiled.


But acknowledging this is a beautiful thought,

Because monsters are creatures who cannot be fought.

And accepting the truth can more often than not

Redirect our attention to things we forgot.


That despite the injustice mankind can display

We can harness a goodness in much the same way

By perceiving each other as people who stray

And then showing true mercy as well as good grace.



Elegy of Agriculture

The tribe had torn itself apart;

A tragic end that none foresaw.

They used to eat what they had found

But then they learned to till the ground.


Their backs were bent to reach the soil

Their minds grew numb from endless toil

Although their crops could feed much more

Their lives were nasty, brutish, short.


And when a cry was raised to stop

And feed themselves no more with crops

The tribe once numbered ninety-nine

But now two hundred stood in line.


So half must leave to lands unknown

But who could judge the ones to go?

And so instead consumed with fear

They carved their plowshares into spears.


The freedom that the victors craved

Was stripped from those that they enslaved

And thus society was formed

To work the fields forevermore.

The Hanging Garden

In a land far away in both distance and time,

A young architect drew up a project sublime

For the woman he loved who would wistfully sigh

When recalling her home and the garden outside.


“In my hand is a plan for a tower so grand

That it shall be the greatest in all of the land.

The exotic and verdant will spill from the stone

And with flowers more gorgeous than she’s ever known.”


With the laborers gathered the work was begun,

The young architect toiling until it was done.

Not a person could tell what the construct was for

They all pondered the meaning of so many floors.


Yet the woman he loved was amazed in delight

As the green of the garden hung high in the sky.

The expression she wore was like nothing he’d seen,

She had wide open eyes and a grin so serene.


And he thought to himself that when it is complete

“There would surely be nothing in life that’s as sweet.”

So the young man returned to the labor once more.

For the sake of the smile of the one he adored.


Then as years came and went the young man had grown old

But the feelings he harbored had not yet gone cold.

So he sought out the woman to give her this wish

That he spent all his life wrapping up like a gift.


The old man found her grave upon asking around,

So ornate and resplendent with flowers from town

Upon placing a rose on the grave of the queen

He returned satisfied to the garden unseen


For the queen of the kingdom could never have been

Any more than a distant, untouchable dream.

As he looked from the top of his tower above

He could now perhaps be with the woman he loved.

Ode to Ontology

Weaved into warfare is worship of weaponry

Wherein the warriors wielding their wickedness,

Wreathed in a ruthlessness, rife with a wretchedness,

Reach for the route that can rewrite their reckoning.


Personal patience is painfully primitive.

Patriots pray for the pressure to pass them by.

Typical teachers with tenure will testify

Time will soon tell, but it’s timelessly tentative.


Molding to meekness, the marvelous mystery,

Marked by the man who is master of mattering.

Holding to hazardous humors of happening,

Heavenly habits are hidden in history.




Thy Fearful Symmetry

The untouched, gentle glow of a light cannot show

Where it is, where it’s been, or to where it will go.

I can sense as I stare into wavering air;

In the haze of the heat is a fear of what’s there.


So the brighter we burn and the sooner we learn

Just how quickly the hands of the clock face will turn.

Because fire that reaches its tips to the sky

Always wants to go higher and higher than high.


If I play this old game but don’t play it the same,

Then I’ll pray that there’s hope in preserving this flame.

But if this is instead a false start from the start

Then must I keep the warmth from consuming my heart?


So the brighter it burns, and the sooner it dies

Into coals that are left yet unseen by your eyes.

But these coals touch my lips, which then burst into praise

To rekindle my soul with a powerful blaze.


Because fire that reaches its tips to the sky

Will be met with a truth that all fires must die.


We know all that it takes is a touch and a tug

On the strings of the heart, but it’s never enough.

I might jolt and rebound as the fibers cling on

Making marks on my skin as the curtains are drawn.


Do you want me to dance? Do you want me to run?

Am I stuck in a trance that cannot be undone?

As my arms limply hang and the music is set

Maybe I’m nothing more than a marionette.


The performance begins, all the people react

As the painted on smile is revealing a crack.

And the tangle gets worse and my mouth opens wide

And the audience peers into what is inside.


They expected a hole, but instead it’s my voice.

They go, “What’s with this puppet? Who gave it a choice?”

But I cannot take back what was already shown.

I cannot lose control of what’s never my own.


Do you want me to sing? Do you want me to see?

When I ask you these things, is it hard to believe?

That I want to live life without any regret,

That I want to be more than a marionette.