I seem to have spent so much time recently on travelling and teaching, there’s been little time to paint (except commissions) or write, though the most recent trip to the Phoenix area produced another eight sonnets which I have yet to even type up. Nevertheless, even without prompting from something or someone, occasionally a poem will fall out of the end of the pen.
Happiness is a gray stick
A thick, gray, gnarly four-foot stick to hold
and lean on, when you have Atlas’s day;
warm wood to grip, not metal, when you’re cold;
a friend to prod dark paths and find your way
between elations clouds, chasm’s dark eyes.
Such is the stick of happiness, who prods
you on from gray dawn to a bright sunrise
with steadiness solider than carrot gods
that promise futures. Happiness is now,
it takes tomorrow when it becomes today;
yesterday’s a less, not a furrowed brow –
or just a tale that we can laugh a way.
When you walk with the stick of happiness
you’ll go through life with more, and never less.