If I have learned one thing in life
The one thing that in life I've learned
It does no good to foster strife,
You only end up getting burned.

But yet another lesson lingers
I cannot thrive without some striving.
I sometimes find I've singed my fingers,
But that's the price of sweet surviving.

I hope they'll say when I unfold
He lived his life more hot than cold.

Little ant, who art thou
that you run helterskelter
all day long, day after day,
forty-five feet for one small
piece of leaf,
three miles if I were to walk it.

Why?
Is it to assure the community
that you belong?
Is it to know you had a
part in building the pyramid of stones
you call home
that took generations of your
forebears to construct?
Or are you just a part of a great machine,
a mindless functionary
on an assembly line?

As I wonder who you are
I wonder who am I.

Davie is not like his older brother Solomon.
In fact, he works hard at being different.
He never makes his bed for weeks at a time.
He wears the same grungy shirt until it falls off in shreds.
He never washes his hands before dinner, and often comes to the table late.
He doesn’t brush his teeth, has never been to a dentist, doesn’t floss,
And avoids eating his vegetables, except for green beans.

He spends his allowance on wine, women, and song, and friends Zeke and Abe, who are always in trouble.
He frets about not having more money for wine, women, and songs.
He avoids work, quitting early if Solomon is not around to yell at him.
He loves upsetting his older brother, tries to do so as often as he can.

Many nights Davie sits out under the Milky Way and dreams of what the world out there must be like.

Nearly every day, Solomon complains to their father,
“That kid is no good, lazy, irresponsible, and destined to destruction. Father, you need to do something about him.”
Davie says,
“I’m not lazy. I just have different priorities.
Life is too short to spend behind a plow on this stupid farm.
I just want to be free to live my own life in my own way.”

He's sure he could make a go of it, given a chance.

What do I want to be when I grow up?
If you insist I must grow up instead of out,
That I can no longer claim immaturity
As an escape from taking responsibility,
That I must act like an adult in all my dealings,
That I can no longer play with childlike abandon,
That I must take seriously all the problems of the world,

Then growing up might not be something
I would find desirable,
That I would be willing to put a lot of effort into.
I would refuse to give up simplicity for complexity,
Freedom for heavy obligation,
Living joyously in the present
Rather than shouldering the burden of an uncertain future.

If I have to grow up
I want to be as playful as possible,
To laugh more than cry.
I want to continue to ripen,
Without rotting out.
I want to quit playing it safe
And risk it all if necessary.
I want to give myself away,
Again and again.

If that's what it means to grow up,
And I can have it my way.
Okay.

When along comes another new year
We try to forget our past trouble,
To swallow our doubt and our fear,
And that life is lived in a bubble.

We talk about promise and hope
That winter will make way for spring,
That we will be able to cope
With whatever the new year will bring.

We'll resolve to turn a new leaf.
But will probably forget to remember.
And alas, and alack, and good grief,
We'll be right back here come December.

I believe in just the right amount of light.
I've learned that in photography.
Not enough, means the subject is in the dark,
Too much and everything is washed out.
In either case, the texture of the subject is lost.
Too much light and you lose the shadows,
and shadows are important for the vibrancy of the picture.
Too little light and the shadows overwhelm.

I believe in just the right amount of light in life.
Too much and you have the Pollyanna syndrome.
Too little and you fall into despair.
If it's just right, life will have a rich and vital texture.
And the shadows are important.
They give the highlights contrast and meaning.

The photographer also believes in color.
Black and white has its place,
But in the end color is king
And gives a photograph life.
Color depends upon light,
The right amount of light.
Color is a fracturing of the rays of light.

I believe in a colorful life.
Not too garish
Certainly not too drab.
But just right.

How do we get there?
How do we balance the light and color in our lives?
No balancing act is ever easy.
Even Goldilocks had to deal with three hungry bears.
Angels find it hard to dance on the head of a pin.
After years of practice jugglers sometime drop the ball.
I'm still dropping the ball far too often.
But now and then a burst of light breaks through the clouds
And for a moment, I glow in the dark.

I can't do it;
It's too hard.
Besides,
I've never done it before.
And I'm not smart enough.
I'd probably mess it up.
I mess up most things.
So don't count on me,
I'd just let you down.

Sure, I'd like to do it.
But I simply can't.
I know, it could be fun.
But only if I did it right.
I've never done
Anything right.
As you say
I won't know
Unless I try it.
But I couldn't risk
Another failure

You know very well
If I don't do it right,
They'll talk about me.
They'll say. I told you so.
I'll be laughed at.
I'll be everybody's joke.
I don't want to be hurt,
Not again.

I think I'll just stay right here,
Right where I have always been.
It's safe and comfortable.
It's where I belong.
But thanks for asking,
Anyway

Surely, you can see what I see?
It's plain as the nose that's on your face.
It's absolutely clear to me
Your attitude is pure disgrace.

The way you do the things you do
Undoes the things that you want done.
You go through life without a clue
There's any more to life than fun.

I'm sure I know what's best for you.
I've seen it all on Dr. Phil.
I talk until my face is blue.
You do it all the wrong way still.

You know you ought to do it my way.
It is, of course, the super high way.

I'd write a sonnet with impressive lines
if I had impassioned things to say.
I'd make a stab at sweet designs,
But that would very soon betray

My lack of poet's license guise,
And dearth of any flowery phrase.
In truth, my awful stumbling tries
Would surely bring dismay, and raise

A question why I dare pursue
A phantom dream I can't fulfill.
No doubt by now you know it's true.
I am no poet. Rest easy, Will.

My sonnet is no masterpiece.
I hope it's not a disaster piece.