Choices

A quiet rebellion
Begins not with a thought
But a breath
Once we understand
That we are breathing
That there is a choice
Of the next few moments
Inhale, exhale, pause
What comes next?
It is not noble to require
The choice be made
On our behalf
Always.
We are not chattel
And even livestock
Retain some power
So what’ll it be?
To breathe? To wait?
Do we starve the brain
Or do we nourish it?
And to what end?

Fabula rasa

This new life chafes at her
Like fresh skin, stretched
Taut over familiar tenderness
Of an old, raw wound
Nothing fits her now
Not time, nor place
As long-jawed expressions
Must face up to unflattery
And quit sliding into view
Over blank slate

Starstruck at Capo d’Anno

I look to the future and what do I see?
My year-ful of past gazing fondly at me.
I turn on my toes and do an about face,
To find myself staring back at my first place.
But try as I might, twist and turn all my days,
The future will greet me, my mind is a maze.
I see now how vain was my endless display,
To seek out my present and past with one eye.
Yet trained in star-gazing and picking up jokes,
Not learning the nature of time, nor her yokes,
I still on occasion, though valiant my fight,
To catch my own tail, pirouette in the light.