Cows

Assume, if you are able, that a cow

For every purpose of our calculation

Is spherical. Don't worry about how;

This is no matter for your perspiration.

It's merely an assumption we can make

To ease the calculations we must do;

A cow's a sphere; a ball, a point; a rake,

A line. We take them to be such because

The real truth of the friction and the angles

Is not the point of what this physics does:

Reality to often merely mangles

Pure kinematic truth and certainty:

Let life be perfect, cows live spherically.

All Good Gifts

If everything around us is from God

How can we discriminate between them?

The beautiful, the normal, and the odd

As we have lived, and loved, and seen them

Are equally of God; so is the pain,

The awfulness of every worsening day

That presses like a thunderstorm, the drain

Of walking weary under skies of grey.

If all of it is God's, how can we choose?

A holy favor means a holy fault.

The good we gain; the good we also lose

Collectively define divine gestalt.

And yet this does not mean we cannot tell.

It only means we must turn ill to well.

Prop

So many things would fall down without you:

The blanket pile, of course, you're nestled in;

The stack of books you're leaning on, a few

Scattered on top that you meant to begin;

The dog stretched out across your lap, still snoozing,

Her little limbs all flopped in full abandon;

The child beside you, obviously using

Your lap as a support for her to land on

Each time she bounces on the couch's springs;

The house itself, though that's a metaphor;

The very world, which only hums and sings

Because you're in it, I am fairly sure.

I know I'd fall, because, you know, I fell

Long years before: I fall with you as well.

Agit

Let us go then, out into the dark

And let the light within us make it bright.

Let us wander through a shadowed, empty park

Where no one else has dared to pass the night 

Dancing around trees that loom above 

Like silent guardians of the evening's grace

(Their roots sink deep, and show their endless love

For all the plants with whom they share the space).

Let us not resist the lure of going out

Simply because the outside is not home;

Let us push aside all diffidence or doubt

Of what might come when we begin to roam;

Let's imagine that the outside will be sweet

As where we come to rest our weary feet.

Age

Sometimes I want to freeze the world in ice

Like some immense Steve Rogers and exist

Forever in one moment. To throw dice

And never have them land; the morning mist

Still lingering, unburnt by coming day;

The puff of air exhaled before my face

Not yet dispeled; the sky the bluish-grey

Of early morning, when the clouds embrace

The rising sun, but are not yet outclassed.

I think, then, it would be a wondrous thing

If time stood still, and hours never passed

And you and I could couch a while and cling.

But if it had before, how would I see

The laugh lines from you laughing back at me?

Ignore

Pretend, if you would so much humor me,

That everything I tell you is a lie.

Imagine nothing that I've said, that I

Have whispered in the dark of night, to be

At all the truth. Declare the fallacy

Of all confessions I have made. Decry

The falsity of man, in me, and sigh

That nothing good is true. Please don't ask why.

I'd hate to lie again. Just let it go;

Believe this much of me, and think me so,

So we can free ourselves of what I've said.

It's better thus, and better you don't know 

The reasons. I won't jerk you to and fro:

Pretend, and let the past become the dead.

Calendar

There is a chicken on the wall

Shaped out of eggs and I believe

Life seeks for order after all

No matter if it wants to leave.

The plastic of a dinosaur

Was once the real thing, when alive,

Returned to what it was before

So life, it seems, will always strive

To find itself, and recreate 

The shapes and sights of what should be;

The eggs and chicken that we ate

Are joined beyond time's unity.

And so I think someday that I

Will be a person when I die.

Oh It Came O'er My Ear Like The Sweet Sound That Breathes Upon A Bank Of Violets

Long, long ago ago I read, from Harpo Marx,

Of how the Christians' music was so great

That, though their worship we don't celebrate,

We ought to listen--as to meadowlarks

Whose music fill the forest and the parks,

With meanings we don't recognize or rate.

I think he's right; once we disaggregate

The million Jesuses and thousand Harks

There still remain some songs (like Silent Night

His favorite) that speak so to the soul 

That in despite of all theology

They satisfy. A music of such might

It almost serves to elevate the whole

And make a truth out of a heresy.

That Strain Again, It Had A Dying Fall

The past accumulates like autumn leaves

Blown into corners, never quite swept up.

The unforgotten loss a mother grieves;

The old friend who once gifted that red cup;

The fingered leaves of books, now bent and creased,

That show the hours reading and rereading;

The wear on steps (most sturdy where used least);

The little bush that grew when missed in weeding:

They do not haunt the present. They live here

As surely as the people on the street.

Their memory is ready to appear

Whenever circumstances may seem meet:

And when they do, the past, like leaves, will fly 

Out of the corner, blanketing the sky.

And So Die

Everything that's born will someday die

Whether from some external force or power

Or simply reaching its own final hour

When life exhausts, and spirit bids goodbye.

This death is sure; though we may reason why,

Rail endless against it, fight, or cower

In sullen fear within some hidden bower

We cannot change it. Yet we also lie

If we pretend that all things die the same.

The surety of death is no excuse

For making life less than it could have been.

Death promises us nothing but the name:

The quality of dying lies in use

And letting death come badly is the sin.