Two is a multiplier,
as life thrives by two, conjoined.
But thrice is the trine device of life;
as there is always a Third Element, that of choice.

Man - Woman, but what happens?
So by threes, come by two,
does Life continue, as much by design as by wild?

What does anyone think will happen
when Happen comes to be?
Each moment is choice, in essence;
benign indifference, or possibility.

What you deny will only haunt you,
and come 'round again if something needs change.
For the only things you trip over
are the things you do, time and again.

Nothing budges until those nudges come pestering,
like little gnats, that claw at your soul.
And you unfurl or gnarl by the way you live;
stripped or buoyed by how you decide to grow old.

Be sick! be well! who can tell?
what the rays of what medicine needs?
What you want vs. what you have
is the dichotomy that dictates what you choose to believe.

There is nothing out there but what we see.
And each of us only sees the reflection of our lives.
When the moon crests over our homes it tells us
that it was simply a wink, confirming what we know, inside.

A little plat of land is the same thing
as a little smattering of how we've lived.
And it fruits from the seed we came in from,
our own stories, from the begin, 'til they end.

Awake, aware, alive and thriving;

each day's bless is Once, from begin until sleep.
In between, there is nothing atwixt life and leaving
than in preparation for it's singular release.


In God I Trust.
Otherwise, I'd not be Here.  I guess.

A Tulip by any other name, and all that?


A revisit, about perpetuation, intent, or taking two to tangle.

Or Not.


Views: 27

Comment by J.P. Hart on February 28, 2019 at 10:43pm

Fine print guaranteed fascination this poet Songbird.

Would really druther snuggle up with your book, say, than The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol.

Working on that midnight hour here in the Midwest. Digit counting the days until the Ides of Starch.

When short February's done, all the rest have 105. Or what's it? Forty-one!

Some of which points out I know that John Galt and Jerry Garcia have the same initials.

Comment by The Songbird on March 1, 2019 at 8:23am

I'll collide with that Midwestern midnight'a yours, and raise ya one, part'mer, since I'm agog.  Ya got me!  Forty-one, he says, but the loser, Mr. Gogol, has obviously just missed makin' three of a kind, by ONE degree! 


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