A Rhyme in Time

Oh for time to pen a rhyme!

Yes, that would make my day.

But there's no time and I fear that I'm

just a poser with nothing to say.

Ode to the Cockroach Coach

From Kanyakumari to great Madurai,

We count up the critters,

My friends and I.

Cockroaches crawling all over the train

As we play, “would you rather…”,

Bam! There’s a new stain.

There’s one over your shoulder!

There’s one in your hair.

Ewwww. Cockroaches, cockroaches everywhere.

Slap! goes a sandal.

Smack! The bug is down.

The travellers around us disapprove with a frown.

Gina got forty!

Matthew got ten!

How many want to play this game again?

Anyone? Anyone?

Anyone at all?

The train is leaving…final call.

No? well, don’t worry

If you didn’t play.

Maybe you’ll ride another day.

On the Cockroach Coach from Kanyakumari to Madurai,

We count up the hits,

My friends and I.

And as we pull into the station,

We heave a sigh.

Though no one is sorry to say, “Good-bye”

To the Cockroach Coach from Kanyakumari to Madurai.

Watchman on the Wall

(from a page torn from my India journal 2011)

Oh, to be a watchman on the wall,

waiting for the sun to rise!

To announce its arrival,

To see beyond the darkness which surrounds us,

To see through the low, menacing clouds on the horizon,

And to declare, rejoice, run up the flag and sound the trumpet at its first appearing!

I want to be a watchman on the wall,

who pronounces hope instead of despair,

who rejoices in the beauty in the midst of gray.

Oh, to be the kind of watchman who waits for the morning!

It will come. Though it tarry, wait for it.

I want to be a good finder.

Let others be the ones to sound the alarm,

to see threats in every shadow.

I will scratch for reasons to hope.

I will not dig for reasons to despair.

Oh, to be a watchman on the walls,

To wait patiently for morning.

Dadaism

A random ode to Dadaism:

Anti-values,

an anti-art absurdity

--tra la la lala.

The sky is down.

My shoe fell up, wordity.

Da da da dada.

Wanderlust...confessions of a nomad

The road is calling;

urging me, compelling me

to wander down its dusty paths,

the twisted tracks with all the mystery

of the unknown just around the next bend.

I am running;

a mad dash toward adventure,

toward life and light and color,

toward discovery and insight and being free .

I am ready to unearth hidden depths in a new friend.

I suppose that is the part which beckons me,

the call to explore new relationships,

to uncover the kindness of strangers

who soon become dear.

To journey this path with fellow pilgrims,

to find that we are different

and yet so alike is like unwrapping a present

each day with each new acquaintance.

We swap stories of hardships and laugh

at ourselves.

We trade remedies for blisters and then walk on.

We walk on.

The path unwinds with each step.

We walk on.

We find hidden strengths we never knew.

We walk on,

unmoved by fatigue or hardship.

We walk on

and are rewarded with views

and comradery and the comfort

of reaching shelter each day.

We walk on, sometimes alone.

Sometimes we walk together

and it is enough to know

that we are not alone.

The road is calling me to wander down

and I cannot escape its siren sound.

The Last Winter Morn

The silver sun is rising beyond the edge

of the world as I sleepily lie.

And I wonder as the first rays light my bed,

"What sorts of adventures are nigh?"

Will we run through meadows

or skip rocks 'cross a stream?

Will we read tales of princes

and mermaids or dream?

Shall we fence with pirates

or build a secret, sacred maze

where grown-ups can't enter

'cause they lack the pass phrase?

Oh, the things we'll do

when we're heads of state!

We'll live in treehouses

and no one will hate.

We'll be kings and queens

in the land of Imagining,

where a poor man can steward

a bit land for a bit of string.

Come! Throw off your bed clothes.

Kiss this wintery world good-bye.

Fly with me to the morning star.

And we'll have adventures, you and I.

And we'll have adventures, you and I.