Crying and comfort, hugging and gifting,
thoughtful with time, and being uplifting.
Embracing each chance to do what I could,
and doing it because good feels good.

Giving advice after I’ve lent an ear,
and choosing to serve who most needs me there.
Save each damsel in distress if I could,
and doing it because good feels good.

Being a friend in stubborn defiance—
I’m the one in whom they place reliance!
Some may not think I should act as I should,
but I only do good that feels good.

People don’t seem to get the irony.
Such goodness erodes some humility.
There is no deed, good or bad, that you would
do if doing it did not make you feel good.

as galaxies collide
black holes mate
and tectonic plates dance,
silly humans twitter away
asinine triviality day after day

this earth
already consumed by deathly Time
just a pimple in the universe’s prat,
about to be defecated
as cosmic excreta
to another remote corner of our multiverse

a befitting lesson
for a new generation of
lucifers, mammons and belphegors
puffed up with massive egos
yearning to play god

the real one quietly smiles
and now takes aim...


© 2019

To act with humility
is to be aware
that I am unomniscient and uncertain
so I need
to be on guard
against the unforseen
bad consequences
of my action.

I open the big glossy book
full of beautiful illustrations
galaxies, nebulae, moons and stars
cross into my view
as I travel its pages
I’m awe-struck.

In the black background
clusters of color and light
this page-turning cosmic flight
humbles me
a tiny speck
in the expanding universe.

Dark matter
dark energy
dot this inner space
wasted moments
in scattered remnants
undetectable by astronomy
or particle physics
in this collapsing sun.

Thank God for the stars
in my universe
who need no telescope
or cosmic observatory
to enter the inner space
to trace and find the heart
and grace
in this still expanding speck.

I am humble
when I’m aware
that I don’t know anything for certain;
that all I am aware of
are philosophical-questions
with uncertain changing answers.

With folded arms on my windowsill,
I gaze at a starlit sky so still.
Amidst the awe of wishful wonder,
A question, there, I pose and ponder:
If the autumn moon that gives such light
were the eye of He who gave me sight,
would He not see a sheep asleep
while children die and mother's weep?
And if glimmering stars were angel bands
that laid to waste a wasteful man,
would I not pray that they be blind
to those I've harmed or left behind?

With folded arms on my windowsill,
I saw a tree in the farmer's field
The winter winds had stripped the oak
And, as I believed, I thought and spoke:
If winter winds, in all their might,
lay bare the oaks and fold their height,
then gone would be the leaves of deeds
that hide my thoughts of lust and greed.
And if trees that grow and bear their fruit
were saints that live and speak the truth,
then I would be a withered tree
with bitter fruit and wilted leaves.