Love

 It is a form of madness, so some say,

That overtakes calm reason’s gentle way,

And sweeps aside most practical objections 

In favor of primordial predilections. 

The heart has reasons, reason knows not of,

Declared one thinker. Did he think of love?

Perhaps then love is not a form of treason

But rather greater fealty to reason. 

Logic can puzzle out the hidden drives

That populate the passions of our lives,

But mostly that’s in hindsight’s golden glow. 

In the moment it’s often hard to know

Just how the heart is choosing when it’s choosing,

Resulting in a gladness that’s confusing.

Ted K.

 The Unabomber was brilliant at math,

But went off the rails with enviro-wrath. 

If he’d majored in English he might have known,

That he could be caught by prose style alone.

Forty Copies

I received a gift from a friend,
A book of his poems - which I would recommend,
But he published a limited run,
Just forty copies and then he was done,
No print-on-demand, no e-book.
So drop by my house. I’ll give you a look.
Due to the author’s carefully considered refusal,
It’s only available in my library
For solitary perusal.

Diplomatic Language

Many a signed-and-sealed treaty
Is vague about things that are meaty.
They load lots of nuance up front,
And into the future they punt,
Hoping the next generation
Finds a peaceful interpretation.

Being a Thorough Skeptic

Being a thorough skeptic
Who never says: yes that’s true,
Is like pouring antiseptic
Straight in your brain, you eschew
The pain of being wrong,
But there’s a price to it too:
You live your whole life long
Uncertain of what to do.

Mulberry Season

Mulberry season is coming,
A thought that fills me with glee.
Nobody else seems to like them,
Which means there are plenty for me.
I especially eat them when running-
I pluck them right off of the tree.