I believe in being prepared for any given situation. It isn't because I'm a pessimistic person; I think it is just good common sense. Hence, I've entitled my blog "Even Nothing is Something."

This covers my butt in any event. On any given day I can feel great exaltation that I have done something grand. I can scribble fiercely when my thoughts are leaping across the meadows of my mind like a happy little colt in the month of May, or my mind and writing can be as dry and arid, as cold and without life, as the Gobi desert - because even Nothing is Something.

I want to thank all of my fellow artists who work through other means and forms and who sell their work on the wonderful artist's site "Etsy," a place to buy and sell all things handmade, along with vintage items and supplies for their craft. They are a great group of people.

Those who have links to their site on my blog represent only a few of those whom I wish to include. Just click on one of those links and join the Etsy community. It is free. They are a great group of artists who have relieved me of my money in the most delightful of ways. If it weren't for their encouragement, I would have never shared my work through this blog.

Thank you my darling friends!

Enjoy my blog - The Poet or Not - More or Less

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Those Creaking Years Before Us

Those Creaking Years Before Us

When we reach
our middle
years and seek
what creaks
before us, those
laborious elder
days, those we
fear; we live
with greater
caution. How
time flew from
birth to age of ten!
We think so now,
but, then, we
thought that
time was slow,
living free from
thoughts of death.
Another ten
found us twenty,
still unaware of
those future
creaking years
before us. Here
we lived within a
sanctuary free from
any thought
of those creaking
years before us. Now
we see how fleeting
those days were
and what rises
near us are years
far fewer than
those that have
gone before. And
time has sped
toward those
creaking years before
us. While life has been
exquisite, if we
dawdle in complaint
we have regrets that
we have missed it.
Too shortly our
bodies wither and
grow old, heading
to'ard our grave,
forlorn, dark and cold.
We ride our days
in an old creaking
ship destined to
land where we
have navigated
through our time
as we saw fit.
Our decades have
been spent, no
time left for us
to turn round, relive
or repent. With
philosophic angst
we question how
we bide this time,
time that will hasten,
faster, faster, to'ard
those creaking years
before us. Soon, soon
we can no longer
hide beneath the bed
we've made. Since so
little will remain
before us, our
eyes will turn
about to see where
we have been, only
after we reach those
creaking years before
us. Will our ship
carry burdens of
bitterness, wasted
years, poorly lived
moments on
churning waters
of dis-awareness?
Who, then, will
hear the stamping
of our feet as
we cry in anguish
at what we think
unfairness? We
who launch our
creaking ship
to'ard those creaking
years before us
choose the cargo
that we'll carry.
May we choose well
those traits, dispositions
and propensities that
on our face we
will forever marry.
Live! Live! Live
life as a song
well sung and a
tale well told. So
when the petals
fall and we have
grown old and
reached those creaking
years before us, the
journey etched upon
our face will tell
a story proud with
honor, one that
leaves a gift for
others who can
walk that line we've
left to trace, as we
lived so well those
creaking years
before us.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

The Weeping Willow

The Weeping Willow has long been one of my favorite trees. There is a legend about this tree. It is said that the leaves once stood tall, straight and proud until she lost her lover, making her sad, and in her misery she has never again been able to stand tall and straight. Hence, this poem.

The Weeping Willow

The Willow of
Weeping stands
alone by the
river, swaying in
the melancholy
winds that refresh
my punished
heart. From
their great height,
the slender, shimmering
leaves absorbs
my tears. The
Willow's bark makes
medicine to ease
my pain, and its leaves
that once stood
tall and strong,
until two lovers
parted in death,
leaving behind
this sad leafage
filled with misery,
unable to rise
again, making
the Willow of
Weeping a Widow
of Love, standing
alone, yet tall,
with sweeping
branches, able to
offer a haven from
the storms that
try our souls droop
in sadness. This
Willow of Weeping
knows our Secrets,
shares our Stings,
those thin cuts made
with the fine knife
Blade of a Feather.
Knowing, the
Willow of Weeping.