Cyclops

The ancients blinded their seers to ensure they practised their art
Leaving one lidless eye in the centre of their heads.  How far
We've come you might say, how much better to be a flock
Of Cassandras, prophesying into the wind, than to blot
Out our eyes and rely not on art or science, but smarts.
Yet what a blind world we live in, for all that vision.

Knew Year

Only if we know the old year, can the new year be a better year.

Rare Prose

I just can't muster the desire to write a poem today.  Christmas always makes me melancholy--especially as it's celebrated here in the States.

It was much kinder in France.  As a student there I was stranded, my friends had gone home to their families, and I hadn't a centime in my purse to buy a table-top tree or a nice feast for myself.  And yet, those ancient streets decorated in old fashioned garlands and twinkle-lights made Christmas gentle and beautiful, so that even when seen from without it shamed our blaring ads trumpeting guilt trips and our grasping, ravening crowds clawing for disposable bargains...  What's happened to us, I wonder?  When did we start giving our souls to bean counters?...

At this time of year, I find myself longing to see old friends I've lost contact with in the course of life's chaos, but I know there is little point.  People move on almost before you have time to know them, and they don't appreciate it when their pasts catch up to them.  Even if I did, I am not who I once was; what would I have to say to them?  How long before the words died on our lips and our eyes slid to the nearest exit wishing we'd left things as they were, scrapbook perfect, instead of dragging mute memories into the present?

No, it is better this way.  Here, in the silent white, I salute you, old friends.  I remember.