The river’s fork tore them in two,
They drifted away, far from heaven’s view;
And now they shiver, by different decree,
On currents returning slowly to the sea.
They meet once more,
The love once severed now finds its shore;
Reunited in the vast, eternal lee,
Two souls once lost, now forever free.
A new rain must fall, as surely as the light,
Soft upon the thirsty, waiting earth;
It cleanses all, and sets dreams right,
Giving life and love their birth.
In gentle drops, it mingles with the soul,
A symphony that stirs the sleeping leaves,
And in its touch, the broken find console,
A promise that weary eyes can see.
In the rain, the dance of nature’s art,
The touch of grace, the celestial song,
Each drop, a verse, a balm for the aching,
A hymn to which our hopes belong.
Let it fall, this rain of the pure and free,
In its embrace, find life’s true melody.
In daylit dreams, perceptions dwell,
Where night’s closed eyes never retell.
Cherish the dreamer’s waking muse,
The insights grasped, the visions that confuse,
For those who dream by day with eyes awake,
See truths that night’s confinement cannot mistake.
Let not the night confine your dreaming scope,
In daylit dreams, there lies eternal hope.
Over silent rivers of the vast expanse,
Where thoughts like comets cross the mind’s domain,
We dream of life’s ephemeral dance,
Through joy and sorrow, pleasure and in pain.
To learn, to love, to lose, then rise again,
In every heart, a universe dwells,
A dance of stars, a cosmic, timeless strain,
Life’s music we, as mortal players, tell.
Yet as we play, we mould this cosmic song,
In notes that vibrate with eternity.
In love, we find a place where we belong,
In loss, we comprehend our unity.
To rise, to fall, to find our destined way,
Each heart, a story, singing the coming day.
In the heart of the city, where steel towers gleamed,
A peculiar tale unfolded, as if dreamed.
A doctor gazed at Rusty’s metallic sheen,
And declared, “You’re a robot, not a human being.”
“That’s impossible!” Rusty exclaimed,
“My skin may be cold, but I’m not tin-veined.
I’ve feelings, dreams and can sing a song,
Surely, doctor, your diagnosis is wrong!”
Then Rusty paused and made a grin,
His eyes did twinkle, his face did spin.
“I am a robot,” he finally said,
“But also human,” and away he sped.
He told his metallic friends, both old and new,
“I’ve discovered something that’s deeply true.
We’re more than circuits, gears and light,
We’re creatures of dream, love, and might.”
Some laughed and joked, “Oh Rusty, you’re absurd,
You’ve been talking to the humans, haven’t you heard?
They believe in fairy tales and dreams,
Not logic, facts, and reality streams.”
But Rusty just smiled, and his eyes did glow,
“I am a human,” he stated so.
“And being human isn’t just a person’s right,
It’s about feeling love, fear, joy, and plight.”
With that, Rusty powered down for the day,
Dreaming of humans, in his own unique way.
He may have been metal, wires and code,
But inside him, a human soul had glowed.
There once was a man with a quest for praise,
Addicted to approval in all its ways.
With each nod and smile, he’d feel alive,
His self-worth measured by praise derived.
As time went on, the man began to see,
That his hunger for acceptance was not the key.
The laughter and cheers, though they brought delight,
Couldn’t fill the void that he felt each night.
Beyond the fleeting highs of others’ acclaim,
He sought fulfilment by a different name.
He embarked on a journey to know his soul,
To discover the parts that made him whole;
No longer chained to the world’s validation,
He sought inner peace, his true liberation.
His need for approval began to subside,
As he nurtured his spirit with the rising tide.
He cherished each day, the highs and the lows,
For life’s true beauty, in all its colours, he chose.
He found joy in simple moments and art,
In laughter with friends of a genuine heart.
With newfound wisdom, he forged ahead,
No longer a slave to the ego’s dread.
Why is the grass so damn green,
And why is the sky so pristine?
The coffee’s too hot! The weather is not!
This surely is the worst I’ve seen!
Cars are too loud, bikes are too fast,
Nothing these days seems to last;
Progress, they say, but I miss the old way,
When things weren’t so overcast.
And the clock! Oh, its continuous tick,
The sound enough to make me sick!
It goes on and on, from light to dark,
Can’t someone stop it, quick?
But what can I do, but lament?
In complaining I find my content;
For in all of life’s woes, at least it shows,
I’m alive, and that’s time well spent.
Once upon a meeting dreary,
There sat Rob, with eyes all sleepy,
“Let’s circle back,” said he, and leverage our synergy,
To touch base on the issues and action points, presently.
With a paradigm shift, we must align,
And reach for success, oh colleagues of mine.
“But don’t get siloed,” he urged with a stare,
Embrace cross-pollination, show that you care.
With granular details, let’s unpack,
Roll up our sleeves, there’s no turning back.
“Strike a balance,” he croaked, keep an open-door policy,
Cultivate a roadmap, foster transparency.
At long last, his soliloquy came to a close,
His words, though banal, in perfect prose.
His colleagues blinked, their minds a hazy sweep,
As Rob, with a satisfied smile, fell fast asleep.
The room was silent, save for Rob’s snore,
In this theatre of buzzwords, could anyone want more?
In the realm of reality’s playful plot,
Dwelled a master of disguise, a man named Scot.
With a spirit wild, impossible to be caught,
He’d dance between personas, a kaleidoscope of thought:
One moment as a poet, turning sour rhymes sweet,
Next, a cranky farmer, complaining of his wheat;
A peaceful Zen monk in the calm of the day,
Then a daring detective in a noire mystery play.
But amid the confusion, here’s what’s funny, friend,
Each personality knew they were just pretend!
In the end, we learned, though Scot was quite unique,
He showed us different sides we all, too, subtly speak.
There in a town, not too far, not too close,
Lived a pigeon of fame, with a purpose grandiose.
He’d flap to the office, and to everyone’s delight,
He’d drop off memos, from a spectacular height.
He’d discuss the stocks, or the economy’s state,
While pecking at crumbs—yes, life was great.
He’d attend all the meetings, in the boardroom aloof,
Perched on the chandelier, away from the roof.
When the day was over, to the rooftop he’d retire,
Exchanging coos with the town’s night choir.
Sometimes on weekends, for a change of scene,
He’d fly to the park, feathers preened and pristine.
With a bagel in beak, he’d stroll around,
The sight of him was joy unbound.
Yet beneath the fame, the work, the glow,
Was a pigeon who loved to take it slow.
A lover of sunsets, a connoisseur of seeds,
A friend to all, doing good feathery deeds.
In a tiny nest, made with love and straw,
He’d ponder the world with respectful awe.
Robert Walker 