Discoverers

I strike out and I bring the world with me,
Discovering new worlds and ways to live --
I fight against those who won't let me be
To prosper and to have enough to give.

My tulip fields spread out in red and gold
And prosper as I cultivate my land.
And you who have this feeling, strike out bold
And fearless -- grasp onto the unseen hand

That guides those who can feel its touch enrich
And make aware. We all survive each season
From knowledge-makers who help mankind hitch
Themselves to beauty, truth, trade, freedom, reason.

Summa

My brothers, sisters, don't you know that love
Is ground for all that's true and beautiful --
Religion and philosophy, the dove
That represents us all? You feel the pull

Of one belief, that lifts you on its wings
As you reign in the horses of your soul.
You listen to the city as it sings
With common voice and with a common goal.

You look upon a flight of birds, a swarm
of ants, and see a kind of harmony --
The kind that rises from a common charm
When everyone's the same and all agree.

When I Was Thirty-Three

Far back when I was thirty-three
And certain I would be alone
I never thought I'd be in love,
I thought I'd live just like a stone.

But that was oh so long ago,
Way back when I was thrity-three,
And now I know I'll stay in love
Since now I know that you love me.

And now I know I'll be in love
Now that I have turned thirty-four.
I know you'll always love me, too,
And without you I'd still be poor.

I thought I'd live just like a stone,
But now I know that you love me --
For without you, I'd still be poor,
As back when I was thirty-three.

Rebel

Achilles comes alive in most of us --
We'd fight a river just to get our way
And arrogantly yell and scream and cuss
And threaten to tear down the very day.

We want to hunt more antelope, to raise
The tallest tower, demonstrate the joy
Of living in our greatness, love the praise
That comes in torrents. Yet, we will annoy

The weak -- but will we care? A part will not.
In the most holy, humble, there's a stream
That strives to join the pantheon, not rot
From memory, but rise in every dream.

Animism

The river is a spirit, flowers grow
Along her banks and house their fairies in
The folds of leaves and petals -- yet we know
These things are primitive supersition.

The car won't start -- you yell at it and hit
The steering wheel. When your computer freezes
And you lose all your work, you tell at it.
Don't they have spirits much like summer breezes?

It's no more primitive -- the spirit of
The rock, the spirit of the car -- we bring
To life important things, that which we love --
In those we always find a soul to sing.

The Search

We had no bed to lie in, so we drove --
The night was downpour-dark, the back roads mud
Below a bed of gravel -- tempted by
A drive with old machines covered in crud,

We slipped in, stopped, "It's too much Texas Chain
Saw Massacre," you said, so out we backed
And off again we searched the woods the road
Too often spread into. And so we tracked

And  found the driveway we had left. There, both
Embarrassed and hard pushed by hormones, we
Bedded in the back, too old, relationship
Too young to care -- through rain, no one would see.

The Market's Tragic Heroes

The ceiling, floor, and walls are white in coal
Mines, dusted to keep down the carbon dust
That could explode. The men dig out this hole

To light the world, the nodes and networks crust
The earth, are photographed from space, a lace
Of light that glows the boundaries of our trust.

Asbestos powder fills the air, a brace
Of heat held off by these stone fibers, steel
That glows and pours. The men make steal to trace

Out cars and planes, skyscrapers, rails which reel
Into the future, make for us the wealth
Which we enjoy, yet somehow fail to feel.

The cost is cancer and black lung, bad health
For those who let us live in luxury,
Our tragic heroes who live lives in stealth,

And do not ask for much more than we see
That they gave up their health to meet the goal
Of making all the flows that make us free.

eHarmony

It is the modern day, and so we met
Before we met -- we each of us came in
The network, joined a common node, and set
A trap for someone we would like to win.

But that's not love.

So we agreed to meet -- a restaurant --
Outside, I waited -- up the ramp you walked --
A voice proclaimed you were the one I'd want
 To wed -- from this insight I've never balked.

And that turned into love.

You are my beautiful -- I copied you
Into a daughter and two sons. We wove
A net together that entangled through
The years to pull from from the depths a trove

Of deepest love.

Measure

Line breaks do not a poem make,
But line breaks there must be --
Three second lines make up their time,
And meaning makes each tree.

The pattern is the father, lines
That speak the poem's scales --
The rhythm is the mother, rhyme
A rule that rarely fails.

And syntax, grammar should be law --
Except when they should not.
Your poem ought to be a thought --
Unless it has a plot.

But if free verse is more your style,
You'd better demonstrate
That you know how to write in verse,
For that's the poet's gate.