A country, in turmoil, a long time ago
Sent all of its tyrants away.
The citizens suddenly freed from their woe
Were left in a state of dismay.

“Freedom”, the concept, was new to these folk
After all the abuse they'd been through
Oh yes, they were glad to be free of the yoke
But they didn't know quite what to do.

Then somebody said, “We need someone in charge
To make sure the trash is collected.
He needn't be more than a p'liceman at large;
Someone we all feel is respected.”

“But how do we choose” was replied in return
“In a way that is fair to us all?”
If only there could be a way to discern -
The answer was somewhat banal.

“We could all cast a vote for the one we like best -
But just how do we narrow the field?”
“We'll pick one from the east and pick one from the west”
Their destiny there-on was sealed.

Both of the candidates chosen were men
(This was long before folks were enlightened)
And both of the fellows knew how to pretend
And thereby the contest was tightened.

One of the guys felt that he should appeal
For a kinder and gentler state.
So he helped the downtrodden, and greased the loud wheel
In the hope that the folk take the bait.

The other guy saw that the hillbilly caucus
Outnumbered the saint wanna-be's.
His cunning campaign became vastly more raucous
As he worked on their fears and unease.

Now, it's not up to me to reveal who succeeded
As that would be cocky and rash.
Suffice it to say that they got what they needed -
But nobody picked up the trash.
                                                            rc

As all of human living
Is the brilliant, blinding flash
Of welder's arc,
One meagre life a single spark
In arching grace
Precise in structure
Art in form
And yet we are compelled to parse
And parse
And parse the parsing
To hours, days and years
To successes and to failure
So.
Much.
Failure.

Most will fall
To concrete floor
To glow and fade and die
And some by chance to quenching pail
To sound a raucous last goodbye
But one may find a life anew
Vicarious in having found
The recklessly discarded
Oily rag
                              rc

Transcendental meditation
Redefines imagination
Scarcely an attentive slumber
From the world you disencumber

Portentous is the cold daydream
Constraining not the mindful stream
It just accentuates the strife
This paradox of conscious life
                                      rc

Privileged pilgrims preaching pious
Cherry-picking epitomes
Poisoned wells are leaching bias
Piped into the servants' homes

Faith is disingenuous
Extracting rented paradigms
Platitudes most tenuous
The death knell of the era chimes
                                       rc

I haven't always lived in grace
No dignified aplomb
I might have cheated in the race
To medicated calm

I feel I've had more love than woe
(There might have been a miscount)
I hope it's uttered when I go
"At least he nailed the dismount"
                                   rc

The deeds are done and done again.
That canter ride on jaggy lane;
It shook his bones to powdered meal.
Too dumb to say too numb to feel,
The flesh is but a salty stew.
His stagnant blood a toxic brew.

More weary than a morning drunk;
His shadow pale, reflection shrunk.
Words are strung in lame concession,
Frozen in that same expression.
His epitaph, in part will read,
"He took the blows but didn't bleed"
                                       rc

You're given just enough to know
It isn't really apropos.
Your questions, verbalized aloud,
Unwelcome; put without a shroud.
You think you're getting closer but -
That door to paradise is shut.

You live your life in compromise
And wear a  pretty good disguise.
Your shadow's longer than the rest.
They pin a medal on your chest.
Success is almost granted but -
That door to paradise is shut.

So now you're old and trying hard.
To some you're held in high regard.
And now you feel the time to ask
Your ancient questions soon might pass.
They rise up to your gullet but -
That door to paradise is shut.
                                           rc