Hovering on the wind in the first soft layer
of creamy cloud, an eagle shifts slightly to
its left, then, in the same easy motion, lowers
its head and plunges into a steep dive toward
a loosely gathered covey of doves circling the
pond below.  The doves never saw the stealthy
approach.

Few things in nature are more exciting than a
wing-spread eagle riding currents of warm
spring air or crowning the highest branch
of an evergreen on a bright, crisp day.

A subtle elegance, quiet majesty are common
descriptions of the magnificent bird, but
along with them, fierce predator, stunning
power.

A creation of both elegant grace and coiled
strength, the eagle is a fitting icon of a country’s
values and virtues, an excellent image to place
atop the flag of a nation dedicated, by principle
and purpose, to live above political pettiness or
corporate deceit.

Armies, political forces, economic pressures
from distant lands and different eras have
tried to destroy or disgrace this soaring symbol
of freedom.  They have failed.

But today the eagle is wounded, perhaps severely,
by the behaviors and beliefs of the nation that
honors her.  Her own homeland.  Political
corruption and cowardice, disregard for
truth and human values, and a blatant
abandonment of the rule of law are arrows
that have found their way into feathers and
flesh.  The wound did not come from an
invading army nor from any force beyond
the nation’s borders.

It is an internal disease, an infection rampant
in the great one’s system.  Whether the disease
is fatal is yet unknown.  Who could have
imagined that the eagle would be so callously
wounded by those who have stood with a
pretense of patriotic pride as it soared above
purple mountains and along the shores of shining
seas, those who have placed hand over heart
and felt nothing but a cold stillness?

The clerk said my room was 205.
I answered:  “That’s fine.  I’m tired from my drive.
I’ll eat a quick bite, then turn out the lights.
I have no desire to see all the sights.”

The room was tidy, though rather small;
a desk, a chair, but no bed at all.
It was then I noticed just above my head
the handles that lowered the walled Murphy Bed.

I unzipped my bag and heard a faint sound.
But I was alone, no one around.
I could only make out a word or two,
but as I listened more closely, the message came through.

“I’m trapped in this wall!  Been here since two.
Can’t feel my hands.  My feet have turned blue.
Pull this thing down and help me get out.
Believe you me, and have no doubt,

“I’ll never again try a Murphy Bed.
It’s hard to sleep while on your head
when you’re mashed against this concrete wall
with nowhere to go and no one to call.”

When I opened it up he was on his head.
His feet were blue and his face was red.
Oh, the words that poor man loudly said!
A helpless victim of a Murphy Bed.

His amber eyes, nervously darting from side to side,
revealed his suspicion that something unusual was
happening.  The dark night was sinking into inky
blackness as soft light slowly surrendered to the
eclipsing moon.

Gray, bristled hair twitched along the old wolf’s
spine.  He crouched low in the meadow grass,
waiting for a twig to snap.  It was then that
his sensitive eyes detected a faint veil of red,
velvet softness, falling over the trees, running
down the mountain, reflecting on the placid
lake.

As if lifted by a gentle hand, his elegant head
pointed toward the starry backdrop for a
red circle hanging in their midst.  A gate in
his mind opened and a memory escaped,
stories told in the den about the mysterious
Wolf Moon.

His lower jaw dropped and wih one deep
breath, the old wolf released a sound that
echoed across the valley, touched the
watching mountain, and rose to greet
brother Sky Wolf.

Relaxed now, he lowered his head to rest
on outstretched front legs.  Golden
eyes closed,  he slept in the presence
of the ancestor.

My heart breaks for the left behind,
abandoned to circumstances,
forgotten in the toil of time.

The bird, broken winged,
walking through life,
cautious prey.

The child, never wanted,
a stranger to love, clutching the blanket,
longing for the bosom of warmth.

He who no longer remembers,
tries but finds no path from
dark clouds of confusion.

She who sits in her hallway wheelchair
waiting each long day for someone
who isn’t coming.

Life moves on for some while
for others the clock stops.
Time is an unwelcome companion.
The left behind wait for everything
and nothing in particular.

I am a man who follows rules.
I view them as convention’s tools.
But I’ve decided that today
I’ll let no formal rules hold sway.
Today I will be strange.

I’ll cartwheel down the center aisle
to see if folks in church can smile.
Dessert will come before my meal.
I’ll kiss a pig to hear it squeal.
How nice to be so odd!

I’ll put my shoes on then my socks,
remove the hands from all the clocks,
stand on my head to eat my soup,
nap with the chickens in their coup.
This could become my style.

Convention says “Do this”, “Do that”
like “Hit the baseball with a bat.”
But just suppose, for quite a lark,
the ball knocks bat out of the park!
My world is upside down!

I’m not a man who likes to boast
but I’ll have ketchup on my toast
on top of octopus and squid
and then I’ll tell the world I did
the strangest things today.

But surely I’ll get locked away.
So what!  I’m strange!

To BELIEVE is to wonder, consider known facts,

study old texts, search through the stacks,

test for validity, research in the lab,

prove the new premise, arrange the tabs

of a scholarly project that makes the case

for new truth to dawn and take its place

in campus halls across the land

where inquisitive minds can understand

the time honored process by which we conceive

the confident statement: “This now I believe!”

 

To ACT in the way of creation’s design,

to serve and to live in ways that are kind,

move beyond the familiar and seek to engage

the lost and the helpless who pass on life’s stage.

Embrace, comfort, defend, console.

This is the needed sacred role

that does not require a diploma in hand,

just a heart that receives every woman and man.

 

Believing alone is not the way

to touch the deep needs of people today.

Stand side by side with the poor of the land.

Hear their faint cries. Offer your hand.

Blessing is good. Bread meets a need.

Maybe by both we plant the seeds

that will blossom in justice and challenge greed,

the principal cause of all human need.

Today I will be in a very good mood.

I will have a positive attitude.

Even if things don’t go my way,

I’ll watch my words and thoughtfully say:

“Relax, my friend. I take no offence.

I’ve no need to practice my ego defense.

Today I am in such a very good mood.

I’m sure you’ve noticed my great attitude.

It was nice to bump into you today,

but now, please excuse, and I’ll be on my way.

That condescending imbecile!

To talk to him is to get my fill

of nonsense spewed in very hot air!

All I can do is sit here and stare

as he talks and talks from his empty head

about some book he says he read.

He bores me so I want to scream.

It’s as if I’m stuck in a very bad dream.

If I see him coming another day

I’ll turn and run the other way.

It’s so nice to be in a very good mood

and to share this wonderful attitude.

Consistently now I find that I

am filled with peace as I honestly try

to show the world a better way

to live each day and how to play

the game of life without the need

to practice anger, hate or greed.

Unless, of course, I find I still

encounter that blabbering imbecile.

It’s so nice to have a good attitude.

The very first line is all I need.

From there I can fly with incredible speed

as words just appear and fall into place.

I can fill a page all in the space

of a minute or two, line after line,

meter and rhyme, what a lovely design.

 

Writing a poem is not a hard task.

Just sit down to write and continue to ask:

“What in the world shall I write today?

A sonnet, a jingle, just let the words play

and see how they fall on my clean, white page.

It’s the poet’s conundrum, age after age.”

 

So here I sit. It’s dark outside.

Please let it be known, I really tried

to create a poem that soars with the dawn,

but my mind is so cloudy; excuse that big yawn.

It’s not beneath me to beg and to plead:

a first line is crucial so I can proceed.

 

Do you happen to have a first line or two?

I’ll be forever indebted to you.

I rode into town the other day

and the sheriff told me to get underway.

He looked at my boots and gave me a wink

and pointed out they’re very pink.

He said I could stay in his frontier town

if I got some new boots, preferably brown.

 

About my new Stetson I’d recently bought

he reckoned, quite strongly, I probably ought

to take it back down to the clothinbg store

and trade it in for something more

fitting and proper for the local scene.

So what’s wrong with purple and mossy green?

 

There were other things about my attire

that roused his prickly Sheriff’s ire.

My buckle, he claimed, was all the wrong size,

he objected to the makeup around my blue eyes.

He said I’m supposed to straddle the horse,

but I ride side saddle with no guilt or remorse.

 

I conclude this isn’t a friendly town.

I think I will simply turn around

and stake my claim in the valley there

where people don’t snicker and rudely stare

at a dude who’s a cowboy through and through

or his trusty horse that’s painted blue.

Don’t weep for what might have been.

Remorse is a black hole infested with

jagged splinters of glass, razor sharp

reminders of misplaced trust and

hollow promises.

 

A dove flutters in the talons of the hawk,

resigned to what will be while a dozen

sparrows watch from a sagging power line.

Soft gray feathers float in circles on casual

breezes, then disappear into the green

leaves of marigolds and magnolias.

Predator and prey glide as one into

the eaves of the red roofed barn nestled

in a tall stand of corn.

 

Not far away a songbird, ignoring, indifferent

to the vibrations of anguish, rises from the

highest branch of a time scarred oak

to pronounce a benediction, perhaps a

blessing, on the wounded and the wonderful.

Each in its turn.

Each in its turn.