Anxiety and the Possible Responses

The anxious guitar string just snaps.

The care-laden fingertip taps.

When one's feeling stressed,

Being put to the test,

Better by far to take naps.

Letting Go Is Hard

The small grey mouse was a thinking type,
A philosopher of a modern stripe.
He pondered problems every day
And how to make them go away.

Alas, this burden grew quite heavy
(A right big altruism levee!)
He grew so tense with anxious thought
It seemed so clear that he was caught.

"I really must, for my own well-being,
Doubtless my shrink would be agreeing,
Ask the question, "How to let go?"
Though how... it's hard to know.

The snake, in whom the mouse was swallowed,
Chuckled softly and then followed,
"Mouse, it's harder than it seems.
But go ahead, follow your dreams."

Apart

A bowl of egg drop soup
And a sharp knife
Are great and useful things.
But not together.

And fresh paint
And a brand new dress
As well.
But not together.

Sometimes apart
Is how it is best.

"Issue Definition as Incessant and Unnecessary Commentary on Existence"...or..."The Moth"

The moth I saw had patterned wings

With colored scallops, two-tone rings,

And varnished highlights here and there.

But it didn't care.

Of its ornament on display

Unchanged e'er since the moth's first day

Not one was chosen for its meaning

Nor to reveal a political leaning.

But Facebook pages 'cross the land

Are full of righteous reprimand

And earnest truths are there tattooed -

Quite often rude.

We seek, it seems, to justify

Ourselves, (or have an alibi!)

To prove we know the wrong from right -

And choose to choose the light.

But all we do is pound our chests.

Or with the wisdom we possess,

However shallow, howe'er mean,

We show, then vent our spleen.

Well... bollocks, fiddlesticks and fie.

There's but one thing to catch the eye:

Lives of beauty, quiet, free.

Would that will be me.  

A Poem's Necessity

A poem requires something concrete
Or even a skeleton if it's discrete.
This one is made of a simple idea
And the image of somebody's feet.

A fellow named Robert walked out in the wood
Walked with more clumsiness than he should.
He was a man with only no feet
And he didn't actually walk to the wood.

Let's try it again for the fun of the play
And ponder abstractions the length of the day.
Think of a potter with wet, dirty hands
But no wheel.  And also no clay.

He mainly just sits with his hands in the air
Fondling emptiness, the nothing that's there.
When he has finished there's nothing to see.
Of his pot?  Not a soul who could care.

Noodling

Oh my, how the days pass and shift
Not solid like something of earth,
But gauze and sound and mist.
Abstractions and attempts.
Of great importance, yes, but not
Solid enough to know they've not been missed.
To parent, to pastor, to husband
Is to have projects always unfinished.
There can be no drinking from those wells,
But only from the one marked,
    Child of God
    A Sheep of his pasture
    A Sinner of his redeeming.