Psyche

See the lovely butterfly,

there sitting on the leaf,

and can you hear the west wind's sigh,

or have you gone quite deaf?

The pretty bug with pretty wings,

that sucks the flower's sap

to taste the sweetness of the things

that those bright petals wrap...

Just see her, gentle butterfly

that drinks, and creeps, and moves.

Of all earth's creatures, bound to die,

she is the one I love.

The Greeks would call her "Psyche," true,

and what great tales they'd tell,

but I've a sneaking feeling you've

not fallen for their spell.

She is the moment's creature, now

alone and ever so,

but if she'd be reborn somehow...

well, what then I do not know.

A hungry bird, a sharpened beak,

a lightning talons' flash;

the weakest eaten by the weak,

and wings crushed in the crash.

And in the bird, the butterfly

soars off to the above.

Of all earth's creature's, bound to die,

she was the one I loved.

(Photo credit: "butterfly on rose" from twistin on Flickr)

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Build

Play on precious bits of sand,
and pile them in the bucket
with a shovel
like a little blue pitchfork
keeping the damned at bay.
It's summer, and hot.

This is a child,
and this is the castle he built.
He knows its every wall and tower,
and it will defend him to the end.
The walls are almost high enough
to keep the world away.

Why build anything?
It is not need.
It is not desire.
It is not joy.
It is not memory.
It is not love.

Build to keep brute panic out.
Build to keep from slipping.
Build because you are a building animal.
The child knows this,
and he'll live up to his nature.

(Photo credit: "Sandcastle" from Henry Burrows on Flickr)

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Thing

You've met it before, haven't you?
I've got plenty of it in me,
and I'm sure you've got your share,
same as the rest of us.
It gets so hard to fight it sometimes,
and it's a battle that lasts a lifetime.

It always sounds so good, when it says,
"Just five more minutes," or,
"You can take it easy this morning," or,
"Let's check Facebook before we get to work."
It never seems to shut up,
and it always has the worst ideas.

If only it wasn't so persuasive!
It always tells me what I like to hear.
It whispers, "It wasn't your fault,"
whenever things go wrong.
It tells me I'm amazing
and there's nothing more important than me.

I'd say I hate it,
but that's not quite true, not really.
The problem is I like it too much
and have an awful time saying no to it.
I've got too much work to do
to put up with this sludge in my brain.

It's everywhere these days.
It has so many opportunities
and it's so hard to keep it under control.
I hate it.
I love it.
It's everywhere.

(Photo credit: "Darkness" from Yann Cœuru on Flickr)

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Hope to Return

I remember it sometimes,
a catch of wind on the air
that brings me back to where I started.
I see the trees hanging with moss,
the sea that forgets itself each moment,
and the thick air
that made you half forget what it meant to be cold.

And when I walk the same beach,
the one with the elephant slides
scratched with sand along the toes...
Or when I see the sunbathers
with shining bodies that glow in the light,
and realize they were children
when I was a child...
Or when I watch the sun
sinking into the stupid, gorgeous waves,
and wish it would drown my stupid,
gorgeous self along with it...

Then I know there's no returning.
Can the slide lose its marks?
Can the sunbather be a child again?
Can the sun rise out of the sea?
There's no returning.
There's just the stupid waves,
the idiot sun,
and that awful yearning
to ebb back to nothingness...

I think they call it beauty.

(Photo credit: "ocean sunset" from Seth Stoll on Flickr)

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Queen

Do you remember how she walked?
I could almost swear
she forgot to touch the ground,
or that she didn't know
that's how most of us do it.
She laughed, sometimes,
and the trees would laugh with her.
I wanted her to be safe here.
I wanted to tell her it would be all right,
that it would always be sunshine,
and all the other little lies
we want so desperately to believe.

Do you remember how she loved?
She was kinder than the rest of us,
but never proud,
never gave herself airs.
The children loved her so.
Remember the day they made her a little crown
all out of cardboard and glue, and glitter that stuck in her hair?
They called her the queen of town,
and she kissed their little foreheads, one by one,
and squeezed their little hands.

Do you remember how she left?
She wouldn't say what took her away,
but her bed was made that morning.
A little note we couldn't read
told us all we needed to know.
We put the golden crown on the wall
and hung it by a nail in the living room.
Sometimes I see it and remember.
I don't shed many tears these days,
but sometimes I see it and remember.

(Photo credit: "R0011196.JPG" from Sigfrid Lundberg on Flickr)

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