Some will always be children 
And for them stories always simple
Little and Big, White and Black, Good and Evil 
Them and Us . . . plain and simple

.
Rain fell in commotions—
The birds would have none of it,
The moon bellowed in ghostly white,
Faced in the sprite, ringing indifference
Of low fading stars, trees in posted dark
Scratched the grasslands of the fallen
Firmaments and the small creatures
That are holed up in days, scurried
With the creep of night and moan
Of oceans slide, mangled clouds
Clutched the murky burn of sky
And smallish eyes everywhen
Shuddered in the frosts
Of a shuttering rose.
.

I once read a story about an ant
who set his mind to move a mountain.
An insect, a millimeter from jaw to legtip,
laboring against a mass of stone and
soil quadrillions of times his size.
But he worked
and worked
and worked
moving the bedrock one dram at a time,
year after year, season after season,
each trip melding into the next in an
endless march of mindless labor, until
where the mountain once stood,
a peaceful valley sank down. All because
of the labor of one very determined insect.

At the end of the fable, the writer tells us
never to give up, for what we choose
to work and persevere towards
will surely happen if we truly try.
As I read the story, I knew he was right.
Never give up.
Even if it takes a quadrillion trips,
1,000,000,000,000,000 trials,
before the mountain bows to you.
Even if your small, insectoid mind
cracks like a candy-cane under a sandbag,
even if you collapse and die after 6 decades
of exhaustion, millions more left to go.
Never give up.
Even if your task is impossible, and it
destroys your life, everything you love,
everything that makes your little ant-soul tick.
Never give up.

Should nimble Muse outspread her wings and fly,
Just wave your hand and to her smile good-bye.

A bear sat upon a mountaintop,
And there he contemplated life.
A thousand nights he thought,
A thousand days he slept,
Until he had a thought
For each star in the sky.
Himself he considered a star too,
As old and wise and special.

One evening a young squirrel
Bounded up the mountain.
With a leap and a chatter,
She said to the bear:
"When I was born you sat here;
Now you still do.
What have you done in between?"

"I have thought," the bear replied,
"Until I have a thought and a story
For every star in the sky.
I have lived a thousand moments
From here on this mountain."

"I have lived a thousand moments too,"
Piped the squirrel.

"Nonsense," the bear snorted.
"I was here a thousand moments
Before your coming."

"But how many did you live?"
The squirrel jumped to and fro
With formless jubilation.

"Quiet, squirrel!"
Thundered the now-annoyed bear.

She froze, then peeped,
Ever-so-quietly,
"You were here,
a thousand moments before me.
Is this moment one-thousand-and-one?"

The bear chuckled now.  "Yes
Dear squirrel, now I have lived
A thousand moments and one more."

"That's where you're wrong."

"DID YOU COME HERE
JUST TO PROVE ME WRONG?"
Again thundered the bear.
He rose and swung his terrible paws
Through the clear air.

"No no no!" screamed the squirrel,
Now frantic.
"I have lived a thousand moments
and you have lived a thousand moments!
I came to see what yours were,
Because they're so much longer."

"NO, you are wrong."
The bear came down on all fours
And put his face in front of hers,
Teeth staring like soulless pearls.
"A moment does not change.
I have lived more, not longer
Moments than you."

"Ah," muttered the squirrel,
Creeping backward before
His awesome teeth;
Then she fled outright.


When safely out of sight,
The squirrel stopped, composed herself.
"Ah," she repeated disdainfully.
"I went to you seeking answers,
But you have proven to me:"

Age does not bring wisdom.

I came here to tell you something
But forgot what it was...

I guess I'll wait for tomorrow
and see if I remember.

Oh I do now,
and Tomorrow brings a new day.

.
So many ****** birds,
Grey, brown and black,
Suited as they sully in sun,
In feather and windy-speak
And dream, drifting to profit
Points, marring the globe,
They have so many ways
Of singing on their swings
Behind bars, murky birdies,
Gawking in the crowded fields,
Fielding, flighty questions without
Answer, winging all souls to oblivion,
Who fly, flustering, dusting with song
Twisting the air into pure falsehoods,
Curious, grounded pets for kingdoms,
For masters, fly-hoping in their cages.
.

Do the roots of tomorrow
ever grow in delay?
Worry not if the
Flower
Will bloom in a day