Poems and Pictures
Everything is random, by the forces upon them.
It flows, then it hurdles and cascades, heedless of the rocks.
It scatters, then gathers a great wave.
It crashes, it corodes and creates it anew.
We are the pebble, caught in the wash.
If we’re still as we tumble we can only just hear, the roar of whatever was, and the hiss of what will become.
And know, for a moment, that we are the where, where it all came to be.
You, can fall asleep in my arms
And nothing will come of it
But the sweetest of dreams
Nothing happens for a reason.
Everything that happens has meaning.
It is often reported like some pathetic punchline, with the passing of some once great man, who’s glory is well behind him that he “died pennyless”.
I say, since you can take nothing with you, it’s best to leave nothing behind.
Best to leave this world with an empty purse, but with a full heart overflowing.
May we, might we, take this with us when we die? It seems like this is the way it ought to be.
I saw an old man today
His eyes ringed red with regret.
Oh dome of the Sky
and cup of the Earth
I celebrate your union.
Meet Prickles McQuill
Prickles is happy
and has friends.
But he doesn’t have many friends
and he is not very very happy.
Because when he is happy
When he is very very happy
he gets prickly
Very very prickly.
And no one will hug him
or push him on the swing.