Tag Archives: Happiness

What’s In A Nest?

Let me show you my nest,

The place I rest my head,

Full of feathers and down,

The protection we shed.

We’ll regrow them in time.

They adorn my haven,

Nothing but sticks and mud

And a home for a raven.

My nest’s in a tree.

The tree’s made by rain.

Rain makes my wings heavy

And makes flying pain.

If the sun comes around

And then refuses to set

I’ll have no tree or nest,

So I pray to be wet.

Bugs and worms fill me up

So I may keep eggs warm

So my nest will be full

With a small raven swarm

Who complain of the rain

And fear losing a feather

And I don’t mind their kind

And I treasure “together.”

Soon they’ll be showing

A tree with their nest

And “together” is gone

And it’s all for the best.

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Very Grounded

The loyal tortoise ambles

Through a forest full of brambles

Where once a meadow full of flowers flourished,

Where once the stamens danced

And petals bright entranced

Now a harsher foliage is nourished.

The tortoise tries a bite

Of whatever plant’s in sight

Its mouth enduring savagery and pain

For the aged tortoise knows

That they who seek a rose

Will, in the process, find that thorns they gain.

The tortoise eats its pick

Though much may make it sick

In hopes of finding what it thinks is lost.

The tortoise chews and bleeds

Just to satisfy its needs,

To find its rose regardless of the cost.

Somewhere amid the brush,

In a pocket, dark and hushed,

A seed emerges from the salty soil.

Its leaves taste stale air,

But the seed does not despair

For beauty never grows bereft of toil.

Someday the rose will bloom

And emerge amidst the gloom.

Perhaps the tortoise finds it after all.

Fearless are the plants of old,

Or so another tortoise told

In tales to seeds and to the ones who crawl.

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Perspective

My friend says it’s stressful

Trying to stay on track,

Keeping up with work and play

And texting everyone back…

And here I am, still in bed

At 2:35,

Unemployed, without friends,

Feeling happy to be alive!

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Dog Years

I was a teenager after a year,

Middle aged by the time I was two.

I’d spend months in a minute chasing a ball

And spent weekends taking a poo.

A scratch on my ears was an hour in heaven

Though it seemed but a second to man.

I wonder if master can feel my time

And pray one of his seconds he can.

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The Purpose of a Bird

What is the purpose of a bird?

To fly? To eat? To breed?

Is its life a thing of choice

Or else of merely need?

If its purpose is to fly

But, hatching from its shell

Is born without the wings to fly

Can life be ever well?

If its purpose is to eat

But lacking seed or prey

Can the bird starve nobly

As nature has its way?

If its purpose is to breed

But has no living mate

Is the bird worthwhile still

Despite its desperate fate?

And what of birds within their egg

Afraid to face the light

For fear of life without a mate

Or lack of food or flight,

Who lay inside their egg, so warm,

Who never hurt or cry?

Are they blessed who never live

For they shall never die?

What is the purpose of a bird

Who cannot do a thing?

To live in stillness silently

Or else, perhaps, to sing.

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Invertebrates and “Whatever You Want”ers Beware

Whether people treat you badly

Or whether they treat you fine

Is directly correlated

To your possession of a spine.

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Dear Muddlers

You want to be listened to

Instead of overheard.

You want a conversation

And not just have a word.

You want to celebrate your life

Instead of just staying alive

And because you know the difference

I know someday you’ll thrive.

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Normalcy Is Discouraged

If a thing is worth the work

Required to do it well

Then it is also worth the time

To be lousy as Hell.

If you hunt and fight and sing

And miss and lose and cry

You’ve far surpassed the many

Who were too afraid to try.

The losers of the universe

Die proudly in the sand,

Pleased to bear their battle scars

With dirt upon their hand.

There are no failures in the world

Of doing what’s worthwhile,

For both the best and all the rest

Have earned the right to smile.

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Imagination Friend

They described me as a “figment.”

They told you I’m not real

Even though nobody asked me

Whether that’s the way I feel.

They told you to let go of me,

To let illusions end

As if it were no trouble at all

To walk out on a friend.

They closed their eyes and turned their backs

And said “You’re hearing voices.”

They gave you lots of pretty pills

And, lying, called them choices.

“It’s your imagination,”

So they said and so they thought.

They don’t know imagination

Is the truest friend you’ve got.

They’re offering a tunnel

Ending in a wall of light;

It’s up to you to say what’s true,

To help your friend, to fight.

Who’s to say you’re crazy

Just for seeing what they won’t?

They offer you your sanity

While I most proudly don’t.

So do you leave me lifeless

And go on with real living,

Accepting their reality

And chemical’s they’re giving

Or do you block the wall of light

And beckon me to stay

And live a life beside me

In a state of endless play?

To take the pill and up you grow

Or spit it out and smile?

Love, your imagination friend…

I’ll see you in a while.

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Three Philosophies Best Spoken Rapidly And Without Breathing…

Some monastic people say that if you can forgo enough

That you can lose the urge to call some other people “bro” and stuff.

To do this is a sort of psychologicalish double-bluff

That, if applied correctly, leaves you feeling rather strong and tough.

On the other hand our non-monastic colleagues like to say

Pursuing earthly pleasures is, to happiness, a surer way

And that forgoing stuff is very (insert synonym for gay)

And that, through your indulgences, you’re guaranteed to feel okay.

I am of a middle-ground, a kind of tertiary school

For those who think that happiness comes not from being tough or cool

But that the key unlocking all the treasures of this happy stuff

Is “Everything is perfect if you keep your standards low enough.”

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