A Triumph

I ran the duck pond trails today:
the cold wind to my face and
rainbows from my eyes . . .

Parents

I often have long talks with my Dad in my head.
He seems to have left lovely gobs and bits about.

But I never get to talk to my Mom. Maybe she died too young.
My thoughts and prayers for her are always blind.

I've tried to talk to both, but it seems that only Dad can respond.

Bill K Boydstun

living among friends

I'm sometimes jumping upward
and sometimes tumbling downward,
even sometimes rolling curveward,
but I have no stubborn standward.

I set and twitch the switches of my goals
always hoping for some bit of control
in case the world turns upside down.
I may then tumble to end my role as Clown.

My tenuous ongoing, endless cope
is not to need to make amends
but always reach tenderly toward friends
sharing all our variety, smidgeons of hope.

Ultimate Problems

In the Aztec design God crowds
into the little pea that is rolling
out of the picture.
All the rest ex1tends bleaker
because God has gone away.

In the White Man design, though,
no pea is there.
God is everywhere
but hard to see.
The Aztecs frown at this.

How do you know He is everywhere?
And how did He get out of the pea?

Just thoughts before bedtime

Some of us are human; we are of different heights, shades and senses of humor; we have different genitalia and we speak a multitude of language variations and react to the sun and weather in a multitude of ways; we can and cannot drink milk without consequence or wine or other drink and we don't always realize our kinship and seldom recognize our variance from our sameness . . . we are sometimes stupid beyond belief, but we are also incredibly wise, and nice and full of grace, intelligence and expanding knowledge and, more often, even love and hopefully, full of continuous learning. . .

Leaning in toward the world

O' I've danced around,
and even pranced around,
but mostly just chanced around.

I've made my noise and barely learned
to whisper if it meant not getting burned.
I can squelch it in or smile it out by turn.

I live on a world as round as any sound,
I am always spinning, spinning around:
I don't quite keep both feet on the ground.

Bill K Boydstun

National Treasures

I am a national treasure of sorts
expecting we will shine with all our warts.

I comb my hair and sometimes trim my beard
and oft-times decide not to be insanely weird.

I drink my coffee black and sip my Pinot Noir,
mostly avoiding traffic at malls and such horror.

I did not vote for mussolini nor for trump;
I'd rather elect debris from the city dump.

Keep Smiling . . .

Honestly, it's gotta be the best route to go
from some point A to some further point B.

Smiles beget smiles like flowers invite bees
and the single thing we need to really know

is to ignore those crowds of C's & D's
and to decide we'll smile when we please.

It may be . . .

It may be that the jungle
and the voices of trees taught me to sing.

toward the coast

Where we go from here
may depend on the horizon we scan . . .
I'm glancing toward the coast.

David Hume again

David Hume would be a neighbor
to share our tea and scones
on blustery mornings without sun.

He would be sun enough for a day,
teacher enough to clear our clouds
and open a better view of the sky,
weaving shapes and shadows across the dell.

Almost Always Pillows

I've moved from pillows sewn into sleeping bags
to twin-bed pillows stacked to the ceiling
to pillows covering corners of double beds
before reaching a majesty of space in queen pillows.

But only living into my 70's did I approach silver gates,
the majesty of the K size, though still merely Q pillows.
Should I strike forth for a pillow that reaches beyond
this earth toward the horizons of exploding worlds?
This may better fit the size of my on-going modesty
and perhaps the containment scales of universal time.

Seeing you

I see you always, but best
when we stop and glance in
some other direction . . .

What Lifts Love

What lifts love to such a peak as this?
-not the impetuosity of youth:
we no longer remember our first kiss -
or, in remembering, trim at the truth.