Poetry is Not the Giving Tree

Chillin’ in my chair,
Trying not to stare
Into the distance
As I feel my stance

Wobbly beneath me.
A busy day, costly
To my mind and body.
But brings home for thrifty

Purchases of necessities.
Do you blame me
For leaving early
Today? Every

Day, I give my energy
To my company,
Hell or high sea.
Sometimes I see

How it rearranges me.
I wonder if there could be
Some other job for me,
But it’s not likely.

So, even though
I don’t say no
To opportunity,
My situation tires me.

Could there be
Another way for me
To make money?
Poetry is not the Giving Tree

That I wish it could be.
Skeptically,
You look at me,
Saying, “But it could be!”

Oh, Poetry!
How you edify me!
But you don’t feed me.
Slinking slowly

Out of reality,
I have a fantasy
Of how it could be,
But, alas, I am not free

To write constantly.
I must work to see
My paycheck biweekly
Deposited, usually.

So you ask me,
“Don’t you want to be
All that you could be?”
It is enough for me

To pay my usury.
My creditors love me
For my money,
Not my poetry!

The Miracle of Mercy

Caressing a leaf,
Fallen from the tree of life,
I trace the intricate veins
With the tip of my finger.

What things that tree has seen
Over eons of history,
A tortured pattern
Of vicious destruction.

The human race,
Seeking to dominate,
May in turn eradicate
All life from earth.

On that final day,
We will shed a tear
For the broken promises,
The wicked schemes.

Oh, in so many ways,
How things have gone awry.
Brother killing brother,
The best have shown themselves

To be far from perfect.
But in these jaded times,
All of us have to pull together,
For no one person has the strength

To carry all the wounded,
To heal all the hurting,
To mend all the broken
Tapestries of life.

When we bind ourselves
To each other,
When we lay our bodies down,
So that another creature

Can make it one more day,
We become an integral part
Of the redemption of humankind,
And the miracle of mercy.