Primary Time

 

That new leader we thought was a dream come true,

just turned out to be the nightmare we will rue.

This seems to happen in every election cycle too.

Would a country with no leaders at all be cool?

There is never an easy solution at hand,

just endless shades of gray, all partisan.

But our stumbling, inefficient democracy

still seems preferable to a greedy oligarchy.

Another election primary is coming up soon,

new faces in the party to make one swoon.

Go out and cast that party vote this June,

see if the electorate will “dance to a different tune.”

One simple way for a commoner to participate,

See the enthusiasm for change we can generate.

With a Respectful Nod to Shelley

 

Beauty resides in many different forms,

regular symmetry, appealing colors and patterns.

The linear grandeur of glass studded- skyscrapers,

Geometric regularity of streets, curbs, walks or paths.

The radial glory of flower petals that scent the wind,

entice bees to help them achieve ecstasy of reproduction.

Springtime sprinkles of violas and dandelion that reflect

sunshine and pronounce that summertime is coming.

A river shimmers with light and life as it

courses through emerald landscapes.

Wooded areas nearby explode with vitality,

creatures tiny, small and large stir into activity.

Insects blur the air in pursuit of a furry meal,

while the furry ones chase their own dinner,

or potential mates in an endlessly repeating cycle.

Cycles echoed in ever-larger scale, to continental,

or global scale symmetries in regular patterns.

Solar system movements coruscate in shifting paths,

while circling galactic centers in clouds of gaseous plasma.

The galaxies themselves echo patterns of beauty,

pinwheeling, spiraling, or crouching in preparation.

Are any two galaxies the same? Or any grains of sand?

All unique symmetrical expressions of the beauty of nature.

And us little pieces of the universe pause to write about

the whole impossibility, and their own small movements within.

Ceaseless Agonies

 

The efforts continue to clear out a flowerbed,

bare dirt hoed and spaded, over and over.

But those blades of grass keep shooting up,

popping out three inches in a day!

“just try and get us all,” they say.

Like the problems in some relationships;

no matter how much work one puts into them.

Mistakes, gossip and backbiting, rude remarks

just keep popping up to complicate everything.

No matter how many are dealt with, more appear.

A strong weed killer applied would kill them all,

and total isolation would take care of those relationships.

Neither solution is desirable or appropriate!

So my sore and tired limbs keep plucking grass out, and

my wearied brain keeps trying to sort out relationships.

Perhaps there is an island somewhere,

without people or weeds…

But then I’d probably die of boredom.