The Ballad of the Orange Lilies

Orange Lilies by the Road

Five lilies bloomed beside the road
Where Thomas walked today.
On leaving home, his well-worn load
Of worries went his way.

One lily orangish in the light
The breeze began to stir.
His mind was darkened by some night.
He did not look at her.

Two others asked him softly why
He thought he had to go.
Though dreams are hard to modify
Forgetfulness could grow.

Martha knew why he was gone.
There’s nothing she can do.
What’s done is done. Life must go on.
One lily knew that, too.

The last reminded him there’s joy
Beneath the sorrow’s shade
To water any lonely boy
When sunlight wants to fade.

The water comes from everywhere.
The lilies drink and shine.
The faithful sun shines here and there
And all can claim he’s mine.

The Monster’s Return

My little daughter goes to sleep.
I hope that monster doesn’t creep
Back to her bed to say, “Hello!”
She tells me that it’s wicked, though.

Now in her dreams, she starts to see
That monster dancing gracefully,
Until it slips on floppy feet,
Then thinks it needs something to eat.

“But don’t eat me!” She looks at it.
“I’m not that tasty.” So, they sit.
It says it’s never had a friend.
No one can trust it in the end.

It starts to weep and she looks sad.
She hurries off to tell her dad,
“A monster’s in my room and cries.
It’s cute and has the kindest eyes.”

Pigeon Perspective

Pigeon Perspective Evening Sky
Pigeon Perspective Evening Sky

What’s it like to be a pigeon living on the street?
Crumbs collect and raindrops fall. Dodge the people’s feet.

Artificial Intelligence

A pretty, plastic flower won’t grow a seed
Though we might think it could with just a glance.
If we insist, indeed, it has a chance,
That only means that we have been deceived.
Computers read, but cannot understand.
They speak, but they cannot be entertained
And nothing new to them has been explained
Though everything and more they have at hand.

So why should anyone presume that we
Could be replaced by what is not aware
Though sentimentalized as if it were?
The flower in the basement cannot be
As real as those that bloom in fresher air
Whom bees enjoy and breezes calmly stir.

Differentiating Subjective and Objective

The only thing some say that I can know
Is what’s subjective, and I’m fine with that,
But when I shoot electrons aiming at
A double slit I trust I still can show
I fired something definite although
If I could tell which slit each one went through
I’d change the way they must have done that, too,
Implying dumb reality must go.

Hey! I don’t mind. The world seems better when
The matter that I thought was dead depends
Upon some deeper Consciousness to be.
If that configuration’s better, then
It changes almost everything and sends
Me looking for those Eyes that look at me.

Retro Mind Enjoying Itself

Some say my mind is retro,
Beneath the avant-garde.
I like the way I dot my i’s
With drops of blood.  I sympathize
With all the modern modes and lies.
It’s changing I find hard.

 

Fear of Flying

There once was a bird in a nest
Who thought he’d give flying a test.
“Any monkey can fly,”
Thought the bird way up high.
So he tried and he flew like the rest.