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I Saw the Evening Star Tonight

I saw the Evening Star tonight.
This wouldn’t have meant much to me in years past.
But I have learned more about the vast
Night sky and its lights, and in turn have opened my eyes.

I marveled for a moment
That I had never really noticed her before,
Venus of myth and folklore,
Moving through the heavens, posing as she went.

I thought the thoughts of old –
Of celestial deities and love and mystery.
Of her dance at the wedding of Psyche
As Pan took his horn to blow.

Ah, but now she is just a planet
A ball of rock and gas and ice and mist.
And indeed that is of what she consists
But it is far from what she is.

For though I had not noticed her before in the sky,
The thoughts behind her have been with me
Each night for years as I have blessed the three
Souls God has placed in my life – my children and my wife.

And what’s more, this Star of the morning,
Who is the greater and true God of love,
Has dawned in my heart below from above
And shown me that Venus is but a sign.

And so I look, and so she shines.

Only a Seed

A cemetery flower, a real cemetery flower, not man-made,
Looked on as the mourners gathered around a grave.
He was a young flower, perhaps a bit naive and green,
But he could not understand the sight he had just seen.

As the men and women placed the casket in the ground,
Many were sobbing, weeping, and all were wearing frowns.
The flower wished that he could find a way to communicate
His own reasonings about what was taking place.

He thought to himself, ‘If I could only tell them about me,
That a short time ago I too was only a seed.’

The New Old Rag

An old piece of cloth that had become quite frayed
For years in the dark of a closet had laid.
It served no good purpose, but only collected grime and dust,
As it laid and decayed in the dankness and must.

But then one day amidst its blight it saw an unfamiliar sight,
‘I do believe’ it said with fright, ‘this must be the thing called light.’
Someone indeed had opened the door
And removed the rag from its familiar store.

‘This rag is old and dingy and torn’ said the one who had removed it,
‘I do not think I can clean it up, but perhaps I can renew it.’
The remover had quite a skill for making old things new,
And the old rag had been quite changed by the time that he was through.

The new old rag now hung on the wall in the light as decoration.
But he could not believe a rag like him could experience such transformation.
And sure enough, as he had feared, the darkness came once more.
The dream was over, back to the lightless closet, as it had been before.

But the sun rose next day and he found he was not in the closet at all.
He was still a new rag who lived in the light and hung upon the wall.
‘And can it be’ he said with joy, ‘that the dream is not a dream?
For this great thing called morning comes each day and I am still the new me.’

Phone-Art

My daughter and I went to the art museum today.
They have a special exhibit featuring Monet.
But I was mesmerized by the self-portrait of Van Gogh,
And a bunch of people talking on cell phones.

They move on from one portrait to the next,
Not raising their eyes, as they send their texts.
A girl sitting before the likeness of the crucifixion of Christ,
No need to look, the pictures on her Facebook app sufficed.

As I explained to my daughter, my parental duty,
That portraits are illustrations of human creativity and beauty,
We critiqued each one, admiring shades and hues,
And wondered what these painted men would say if they could.

They’d probably say, ‘Get off your phone,’
And let out a groan.
There’s only one thing more awkward than being stared at when you’re beautiful,
And that’s being ignored.

________________________________________________________

Not my best poetry, but true nonetheless.

Inundated by Liquid

A fish sat in his little bowl.
And suddenly another appeared.
‘I have discovered a water hole,’
He said, with an element of cheer.

‘I already have water all around’
Said the first, as he gave a twirl in his tank.
‘But you don’t understand the sound,’
Said the second, ‘this water makes on its bank.’

‘I don’t know what a bank is,’ said the first.
‘Well, that’s because you have never seen
The great water that is filled to burst,’
(spoke the second) that men call the ocean.’

The first replied, ‘With water all around, why should I look for more?
And besides if everything’s water, then nothing’s water. It all splatters.
I don’t even really know what water is, or this thing you call a shore.
What’s water to a fish? It’s like air to a man, molecules to matter.’

He continued his speech: ‘I don’t need your ocean, friend.
I’m surrounded by water on every side.
I have enough to keep me busy and tend
In my tank until the day that I die.’

And die he did, inundated by liquid
All around in his little pen.
To him, water was water, but for his friend it was another matter,
So he went to the ocean to swim.

‘Didn’t the second die as well?’ you ask.
Of course he did, and so will we.
Yet he died not in a cask,
But in the freedom of the sea.

She Walked By

She walked by.
The memories they might make.
He didn’t know her name, nor did she his.

Hello.
The clumsy introduction.
Smiles, flirtation, invitation.

The first date.
The dreaminess of young love.
Him down on one knee, her crying in joy.

Children crying.
And laughing, and dancing.
Growing old and gray together.

She walked by.
The air filled with possibility.
But he did not see her. He was busy texting.