Futurelawyer

We Are All Black Cats In Dark Rooms.

I hope my religious friends aren't triggered or angered by this meme; but, to me, it is a great explanation of the human condition and our responses to it. I have always leaned to the scientific side of human endeavors. It just seems the most common sense, rational response to our ignorance. Attributing magical qualities to the unknown is human; but, claiming to "know" the unknown destiny of humans after death is pretty crazy. The fact that there are thousands of religious traditions merely underscores the fact that we really don't "know" anything about death. So, you don't have to trumpet which of these you are; but, be honest about it. I am a little of all of these things; but I would add that Poetry is like being in a dark room and writing about philosophy, metaphysics, theology, and science.

#PoetryFriday - Blue Madonna

The painting hung from a corner of the wall.

It was unassuming,

simple.

He stopped in the gallery,

and held his Madonna's hand.

They gazed at the pensive face

of Christ's Mother;

but, he thought only of her.

He was struck by the coincidence.

His Madonna wore the same gaze,

as she stared at the painting with soulful eyes.

Did she see?

He sensed a sadness in her,

and he felt a tugging irony

at the comparison.

He knew, instinctively,

that she was thinking

of another love.

He wondered whether his new love

would allow him to make of her,

his Blue Madonna.

Would he worship her,

with the reverence of a believer?

Death Of The Flower.

Yesterday he was a flower,

gently moving with the breeze,

bending with the weather,

and never touching the ground.

The sunlight made him grow.

First he was a bud,

then, a bursting palette of color.

Each day,

more of him reached to the sky.

He was fruitful and multiplied.

She came one day,

to the field

in which he was growing.

She found him,

in his glory,

smiling at the world,

bursting with the energy of youth.

Then, she clipped him with a pair of scissors,

close to the ground.

Now, he was long stemmed ;

but, unattached to the earth,

swaying in her basket.

She brought him home,

placed him in a glass vase,

poured some water in.

For a time, they drank of each other’s beauty.

He never realized that the water

wouldn’t be enough to survive.

After a while,

he realized that his petals were wilting.

After a while,

he suffocated,

and died.

She took him from the vase,

flattened him in a book,

and laminated him

for her memories.

Today, he is a specimen

preserved for her scrapbook.

The Young Wolf Howls.

In his dream,

he walked in a wood,

branches in his face,

mud under his feet.

He enjoyed the battle for survival.

He ate berries and leaves,

slept next to the water,

and awoke to sunlight

filtering through the trees.

He happily faced the enemies in day or night.

Each day he walked a new trail,

choosing bramble bushes

over paths paved in concrete.

He never gave up.

He never surrendered.

He never allowed the she-wolves to devour him.

He was a young wolf,

sauntering through the wood,

looking for prey.

He howled in the night,

scratching and serene.

He was king of the forest.

As he grew older,

his pace slowed.

His saunter became a steadier gait;

but, still he pushed,

ever forward,

looking for the next kill.

He stayed with the pack,

never alone;

but, always apart.

He kept free of entanglements

with other wolves.

He growled at the enemy,

while the she-wolves circled.

He was unaware of his growing discontent.

The she-wolves grew louder,

insistent,

and attacked.

They bloodied him with their fangs,

until,

looking for peace,

he ran away,

alone,

into the night.

Still alone,

he grew older still,

ate what he killed,

slept when he liked.

He was content to be an old king,

alone in the peace of the jungle.

Then, one day,

the queen of the she-wolves

approached in a glade.

She smiled at him,

and nuzzled his face with hers.

In an instant,

he surrendered to her charms.

He had grown tired of the chase

and accepted his fate.

He knew that only a queen

could be his match.

But, he wondered,

would she devour him,

or,

after his lifetime of struggle,

would she free him

to be a young wolf,

howling in the night

hunting for tomorrow?

#PoetryFriday - Life Is For The Living.

He was alive.

He felt the breeze in his face,

when he walked to his car.

He heard the hum of the engine,

when he turned the key to the ignition.

As it came to life,

he felt the rumble of the metal gears,

and touched the steering column gently.

He eased into the street,

brick pavers under the wheels,

and headed towards his destination.

Schoolchildren rushed across his path,

and he waved to the street crossing guard,

blowing a kiss to her,

just as regularly as the sun rose.

He was thankful for another sunrise.

He was thankful for another day.

He was secure in the knowledge

that the moment was his,

to do with as he wished,

without fear

or favor.

When the workday ended,

he asked himself the question

that had haunted him,

for a long while.

Why did he get another day?

Why did he get to see the sun?

Why did he get to live and breathe?

Why did he get to ask the questions?

Why did he get to wonder,

why she didn’t?

Poems For Lovers.

The incomparable Heather Joi, did the illustrations for my book "Poems For Lovers".

How Will You Live The Life You Have Left?

I am a believer in humor. If you aren't laughing, you aren't living. Make sure, however, that your "joy" isn't a politician's fake pandering to an audience. The only bigger waste than a life without happiness and joy, is a life filled with fake smiles. 

He was a stern taskmaster.

He demanded perfection,

and he punished failure.

He assigned the jobs

to be performed,

and monitored their progress

with a focused attention to detail.

No laziness was tolerated,

and the days were long

and stressful for those under his control.

He never smiled,

as that would be a sign of weakness,

and he could never be seen to be weak.

He was strong

and firm,

and those who obeyed him

were not allowed to waver

from the collective goal.

He counted pens,

and paper,

and spent hours poring over

journals and entries,

and reports

about arcane subject matter.

Those who challenged him

weren’t around very long.

He didn't give second chances.

Others only received one opportunity

to meet his high standards.

Some of those around him

wondered what he did

when they weren’t around

to follow meekly

his demands.

What did he do

when he wasn’t ordering them about

and checking their work?

Did he have love in his life?

Did he laugh?

Did he ever get sick?

Who commanded him?

When he died,

everyone pretended to grieve.

They said the right words,

and the priest congratulated him

on a life of accomplishment.

The plaques, celebrating sales goals

and other successes,

are gathering dust in the warehouse

where accomplishments go when their owners die.

Maybe he will get a second chance,

in the life beyond midnight.

Maybe there is a place where he is allowed

to smile,

and be happy.

Perhaps there is a heaven for him.

Zoo.

He watched the animals behind the fence.

They were oblivious to him.

They ate the grass,

lay in the sun,

and slept in public.

They weren’t like the broken people,

the discarded ones,

that he saw on the street.

They were cared for,

fed and housed,

protected from the weather.

They didn’t seem to mind

that they were inside a compound,

behind a fence,

built to keep them in.

He wandered from pen to pen,

accompanied by other animals,

who sought enjoyment,

watching another species

live its life

behind a wall.

The prisoners lived in the moment,

while their jailers agonized,

and wondered what the next moment would bring.

He recorded their images

on a camera,

and sent them to social media,

where his friends marveled at their beauty.

No one ever considered

whether they knew they were specimens

in a photo show.

When he grew tired of the walking,

and rested in the sun,

he spent some time longing for a life ,

behind the fence.

It seemed to him

that the animals were actually free.

He wanted to live happily;

but, first,

he had to learn to see.

Rudyard Kipling Was A Stoic.

The famous 19th century poem, "If", by Kipling, is powerful. Since we are heading into football season, this reading by John Facenda, of NFL Films is a great version, and carries one of my favorite lines: "If you can meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same". One of the bedrock Stoic principles is to expect disaster, and treat it the same as success. Never expect success to continue, and prepare for the worst. Concentrate on being your best no matter what happens. It is the choices we make in the present that count. It is our reaction to these varied events that we control, and nothing else. In its imitation of reality, football embodies conflict and resolution, success and failure, and what a famous broadcaster used to call "the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat". But, the key is to control our reaction to these twin results, and not to wallow in defeat, or become sanguine about victory. If you can control these impulses, "you'll be a man, my son".