Toss out the fruit before it spoils.Give the flies no chances.We made sweet indulgences with them,But now they get no second chances. Heave the fruit into your compost heap.With luck, you can amend your soilAnd create something even more beautifulWhen you‘re ready to uncoil. Toss out the fruit before it spoils.What you had was certainly…
First, I thought it was just jitters,The pace too breakneck,Our horses too swift. Then, I believed your burdened soulWas simply too spent,Justifying the downshift. Next came the holidays, heavyWith obligations aplenty,And a tenuous rekindled gift. What followed was foggy. Unclear.A gloomy, shadowed sky and noBridge to span this rift.
The graceful GuanyinGuides the compassionate waves—Her mercy flowing.
UnfulfilledUnder-filledIt really makes no difference.Restless mindRest less, mindClogged with naught but dissonance.
The Buddha sat serenely in grace,The Cardinal joined his calm space.The snow softly falling,It all seemed enthralling,Charming and slowing my hectic pace.
I tire of your indelible marks.Canned and copied remarksHint not at emotion,But to a devotionTo acclaim for hollow praiseFor your overused clichés.
Nothing in my stocking,Not a trinket nor a thoughtful bauble.Just dust and memoriesReducing my pace to a hobble. The deft, skillful, seamstress’s hands—Confused and enfeebled now—Made their mark long long ago.A magic I couldn’t disavow. Kindly fill my stocking.Just a silly doodad or helpful tool.Something to raise my spiritsWhen there is nothing merry or bright.…
The bird in my handDoes not sing; it barely chirps.Over there? Birdsong.
The term “unalive,” while used since 1828, has evolved into a vague euphemism that undermines language clarity and seriousness. Its modern application as a verb often circumvents content moderation and promotes linguistic laziness. Meaningful communication relies on precise language, essential for discussing life’s gravitas, especially in challenging contexts like death and grief.