|The Most Beautiful Flower|
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
The weed before me was dying or dead.
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
|The Paradox of Our Age|
We have taller buildings, but shorter tempers;
wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints;
we spend more, but have less;
we buy more, but enjoy it less.
We have bigger houses and smaller families;
more conveniences, but less time;
we have more degrees, but less sense;
more knowledge, but less judgment;
more experts, but more problems;
more medicine, but less wellness.
We drink too much,
We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.
We build more computers to hold more information,
It is a time when there is much in the show window
I now know why I'm always so tired. For a couple years I've been blaming it on lack of vitamins, iron, poor blood, dieting and a dozen other maladies. But now I found out the real reason: I'm tired because I'm overworked.
The population of this country is 237 million.
There are 85 million in school,
Of this there are 29 million employed by the federal government.
Four million are in the Armed Forces,
Take from the total the 14,800,000 people who work for State and City Government
There are 188,000 in hospitals,
Now, there are 11,998 people in Prisons.
You and me.
And you're sitting there reading this.
|The Cold Within|
Six humans trapped by happenstance
In bleak and bitter cold.
Each one possessed a stick of wood,
Or so the story is told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
The next man looking cross the way
The third one sat in tattered clothes.
The rich man just sat back and thought
The Black man's face bespoke revenge,
The last man of this forlorn group,
Their logs held tight, in death's still hands
You must be starving!!