Looking For Integrity (form: Villanelle)

It doesn't seem integrity has worth.
No more the "public servant" touts our needs;
More valued is the bloated purse's girth.

Dark comedy reflects their bitter mirth,
Bleak politics gives reason for their greeds;
It doesn't seem integrity has worth.

Not only has dishonour given birth
To soiled campaigns, but no one votes on 'deeds';
More valued is the bloated purse's girth.

Now corporations speak as persons. Dearth
Of values, meaning, substance, haunts their screeds.
It doesn't seem integrity has worth.

We watch as government spreads o'er the earth.
No wholesome food this grazing monster feeds;
More valued is the bloated purse's girth.

And those who hunger, given a wide berth
As famine to our land's destruction speeds.
It doesn't seem integrity has worth.
More valued is the bloated purse's girth.

Making It Up...

Sometimes I don't trust my own instincts
Sometimes I think I'm full of crap.
Sometimes I get so overloaded
Sometimes there's too much in my lap--

Sometimes I despair when I look at
The things I have promised to do.
Sometimes I am certain I'll never
Have the energy to see it through.

Sometimes I outsmart myself. Often
I can't find the next step to take.
Sometimes I am certain that next time
I pick up the load it will break.

And then I remember the magic
I learned when I danced as a girl.
If you step wrong, you're losing your balance,
You'll stay right-side-up if you twirl.

If you're there on the stage and can't think of
The next step to take, well, just take it.
If you float gracefully through an error
No one will notice you make it.

So when I am too overloaded,
When there's far too much wine in my cup,
When I'm stuck on the stage with no options,
I have one. I just make it up.

Peace

There is a feeling
One hardly noticed
Except by its absence

It is a deepness,
A widening of spirit,
A silent vista

It leaves nothing
But a cool breeze
And a deep silence

And it is so rare
That even as we notice it
We lose it.

Why is it
That all we do
Removes from us

This deep, quiet,
Yearned-for alliance
Of calm and awareness?

Could it be
That in becoming wise
We learn to do

Less?

Spring Fever

I must go down to the store again, to the lovely gardening store,
And all I ask is a tall tree, and a flat of plants galore,
And a wind chime, and a windsock, and a white narcissus,
And a green thumb, and a rose bush that will please the missus.

I must go down to the store again, for the call of the growing green
Is the weed's clutch, and a yard full of stuff you've never seen;
All I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray of the RoundUp, and the crabgrass dying.

I must go down to the store again, for the vagrant gypsy's life
Is a soft dream that was long gone when I bought a house with my wife.
And all I ask is a spool of yarn to block the cats from the clover,
And a long vacation in someone else's garden when spring is over.

Glamourie

On seeing the full moon rising behind the Wasatch Mountains in a light snowstorm.

Glamourie

Again She rises, white, distant, complete in Herself....

Once more I attempt to decipher the feelings She engenders...

I cannot fault myself for failing to comprehend Her...

Indeed, it is in Her nature to be integrally cryptic.

And the precious knowledge She withholds is not for the taking...

The message is concealed in rays of moonlit Glamour...

If timely action is required...I may miss it....

Mother...I need direct communication this time...

Or my response will honour neither Thee....nor me....

Why Bother?

Sometimes it seems as if it's too much trouble
To make the effort to repair this place.

She doesn't notice all the mess and rubble
Or seem to feel it's mostly a disgrace.

Instead, she looks at tv, reads the paper
And sometimes slaps a bit of food together.

I go to see her, quite the useless caper,
And nothing ever changes but the weather.

Next time, I'll bring a mop, some soap, a broom.
If she's not glad to see me, well, the room

Will be the better for my visit, then.
And in a week, I'll do it all again.

NaPoWriMo, Here I Come....

Signed on to the Poem-A-Day for 3o Days Madness that is NaPoWriMo--Will also be doing National Poetry Month challenges on my LiveJournal. So--here's today's effort:

April Fuel

It might be ridiculous
One more time
Subjecting myself
To rhythm and rhyme--
Hocus pocus
Is the focus
Of the poet's genus locus.

I know I can do it, though,
I must try
Even when my mind
Is running dry
And bare of muses.
It confuses
To be forced to poet's uses.

But I will write, on April's fuel,
With my pen I must needs duel,
Perhaps one poem will come out kewl--
Or I will be a Muses' tool--
But either way, hey.....April Fool!!!