Futurelawyer

#PoetryFriday - Wolf Trap.

WOLF TRAP

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 his 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 the 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 bloodied him with their fangs,
until,
looking for peace,
he left alone
into the night.

He grew older still,
ate what he killed,
slept when he liked ,
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 whether she would devour him,
or,
after a lifetime of struggle,
she would make him again
into a young wolf,
howling at the night,
hunting for tomorrow.

#PoetryFriday - Hotel.

HOTEL

As he waited in the empty lecture hall,
for his turn at bat,
he thought about her.

Her face was in every seat.

He felt the loneliness
of the room,
and wondered about the rest of his life.

He stood at a crossroads,
barred by a locked gate.
She held the key.

Would the road to her love
open for him?

Or, would he again be asked to walk alone,
down a road with no end,
and no destination
worthy of a visit.

Would he find another love,
after another mile,
and another day?

Would he be so far down the road,
that she couldn’t find him,
when she finally realized
that the gate was for him?

#PoetryFriday - The Butterfly Lovers.

The Butterfly Lovers.

He watched them flit from bud to bud,
beautiful creatures,
every color in the palette
that nature provided,
orange, and brown, and blue and green,
resplendent images,
wings fluttering in the breeze.
They seemed to know
their lives were short,
and never rested long in one flower.
After spending a long time
in a cocoon
surrounded by gauzy matter,
impervious to sight or sound,
they joyfully traveled
among the other flowers,
displacing the butterflies
who had their fill.
But, what of the flowers, he thought?
What of the green leaves
that had no shiny exterior to show off
to the world?
What of the tiny branches,
the nondescript brown
remnants of past glory?
Didn’t they deserve a turn in the sun?
Weren’t they God’s creatures too?
The butterflies live a short life;
but, they seem to know their time
has an expiration date.
They refuse to waste it
by staying in one place.
They refuse to be an ornament
in the garden.
Until, of course,
they are caught in a net
and flattened or pinned
to show off their colors
in someone’s display
of nature’s beauty.
In death they become a trophy,
and their lives are frozen in time
until they are replaced
by another species,
more valuable than they.

#PoetryFriday - The Dead Don't Care About Obituaries.

If there is a God, the dead have a lot more going on than worrying about what people here say about them. If there isn't a God, there isn't an after death consciousness to worry about anything. There are no other options. So, why do we care about what people say about us during or after our lifetimes? What purpose does legacy serve anyway?

Fame Dies Also.

 

He wondered if the dead read obituaries.

He thought of them

as he read the newspaper,

and wondered about the recently dead.

Was the owner of a five line obituary

any different than the famous person

who had a full page article,

complete with photographs?

Did a life have meaning

greater or less because of their fame?

He supposed that when the memories faded,

the newspapers were used

to collect debris

from the animals who remained alive.

He moved from the newspaper

to the Internet.

Obituaries live a long time on the Internet.

Some people get many mentions

in news outlets,

which trumpet their accomplishments

while they lived,

and everyone who reads them

is glad that they aren’t reading about themselves.

After a famous person dies,

do we celebrate them,

or ourselves?

While we live,

none of us wants an obituary.

He didn’t care whether it would be short or long.

He just didn’t want it written

while he was alive.

Like Ozymandias,

he wanted his obituary

dug out of desert sand,

after a thousand years.

Even then, he knew

that no one would care,

except for the schoolchildren

required to read about him

in order to graduate.

Dead Friends.

In today's theme of live while you can, here is a poem I wrote a couple of years ago. How do you honor dead friends? Why, living today, of course.

DEAD FRIENDS

He watched the procession of dark colored cars

slowly moving across the asphalt.

The heat of the sun made vaporous streams of gas

lift from the soft black stone

into the air

like a prayer

to a higher power.

The mourners cried and laughed

fiddled with their ties and their hair,

as they nervously wondered

when their time would come.

Would the Church be filled with their friends?

Would they care

wherever they were?

The priest pretended to know what he was talking about.

Everyone knew that he was as much in the dark

as they were.

Everyone was happy it wasn’t them

in the coffin.

Everyone was sad that their friend was dead.

Everyone tried to remember the last time

they called his number

or visited him.

Everyone was glad they weren’t with him

at the end.

When they put him in the ground

he walked in the sun

to a place in the soft grass

and prayed to whatever was up there

that he would be ready

when his time was up.

Until then

he vowed

to make the world sing

and the flowers grow

and the people laugh

and the music lift

his spirits to heaven.

#PoetryFriday -Renewal

#PoetryFriday. Renewal.

RENEWAL

He had spent his forty days in the desert.

He wanted a drink of water,

and wine.

She warned him that spring brought new growth

and

change.

She counseled caution.

She spoke the words of winter;

but, she moved with the body of spring.

He knew only that he wanted her

with the sizzle of a summer sun.

As their voices

quietly

danced the dance of lovers,

he impatiently

awaited the coming of the rosebud,

expectantly.

Its bloom was as inevitable

as the passage of time.

#PoetryFriday - Lazy Sun.

Lazy Sun

As I float in the pool,
I shield my eyes from the afternoon sun,
which brightly heats my skin
to tanning temperature,

I think about you.

As the water
laps at my toes,
cooling them briefly,
before retreating behind a cloud,

I think about you.

As I lazily contemplate,
my inward looking navel,
I clear my mind of all distractions,
but still,

I think about you.

I wonder whether
I will ever again
think about anything else.

25 Years Goes Fast.

Twenty Five Years...Time Flies When You're Having Fun.

I was updating the Copyright Notice on the FutureLawyer site this morning, and I realized that I started the site in 1996. That means I have been doing this for 25 years. It has been a daily passion since 2005; but, I haven't missed many days. So Happy Birthday to the FutureLawyer site. I have no idea which day in 2021 will be the actual anniversary. But, let's celebrate every day, okay?

#PoetryFriday - When I Am Old.

When I Am Old.

When I am old,
I will bark at the stars in heaven.
I will buy a new car,
with sleek lines,
and race between the cinder blocks
lining the street in front of the house.

When I am old,
I will miss the grasping youth,
who held her with a passion,
and kissed soft lips
and rounded hips,
and never knew
what he had.

When I am old,
I will rise from the chair carefully,
so as not to break a bone,
or strain a muscle,
that once was strong and firm.

When I am old,
I will think about the lost days,
spent worrying about things
that never came to pass,
and about the time I wasted
wanting to change the past.

When I am old,
I will spend more time
putting on my socks,
and taking my medications,
and crying over lost love.
I will wonder how many more days
I have until I won’t be old anymore.

When I am old,
I will write poems
about love and loss.
I will remember when they were
living memories,
and not dying thoughts.

When I am old,
I will wish that I had stayed young forever.

Snake Charmer.

Snake Charmer.

He slithered up to the bar

oozing romantic juices on the floor

He cast a sneaky eye

to where his wife might be

and looked around

for a warm dark place

to curl up in.

His eyes were black as coal

and his long, lithe body

slowly moved to the closest rabbit he could find.

Would she succumb to him

Or

In a flash of insight

look at me

and see the lover

behind the aging bull?