stop motion

granitic rocks comprise the basolith
up-thrust in basin-range orogeny
an age before our first creation myth
divided dry Land from chaotic Sea
James Hutton glimpsed Deep Time and wrote a book
"no vestige of Beginning" stamped the rocks
that wear to dust, subduct and then recook
composing a geologist's rough clocks
we lack perspective to perceive the dance
like telling decades by the second-hand
it all seems static to our fleeting glance
that--played out over time--is passing grand
whole mountain ranges fall, to rise again
but just play dead throughout the lives of men

O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us

Trump's blindspot could eclipse a universe
that bad comb-over's boyish in his eyes
and posing next to Christie (who looks worse)
it's easy to believe self-serving lies
most guys dwell on the candy on his arm
to comment on  his mop might give offense
the haystack that looks fine down on the farm
looks weirdly plastic next to old Mike Pence
but Donald's deaf to those who'd give advice
what's negative's lost in a verbal haze
he knows they meant to say that he looks nice
the only sounds that penetrate are praise
denial guards his ego from the world
next season, he'll import another girl

ouroboros

the tumor on Trump's brain might have been missed
if they'd relied on ordinary tools
but he presented his ass to be kissed
in gesture of the fealty of fools
exceptional in more than just his wealth
and flexible in more than just his creed
some yogi taught him flexion's good for health
and his weak spine contorts like a slim reed
the orange clown who sells the mob sham class
who'll peddle any lie the crowd will buy
has lodged his head so far up his own ass
he can't tell up from down, or mud from sky
the cancer that could save the GOP
was only found on colonoscopy

Relativity II

subjectively, a century's ticked past
since Einstein published relativity
coordinates can't but conform to mass
attested by the path of Mercury
the laws of Newton just approximate
the special case where space-time's nearly flat
but Albert Einstein dared to formulate
the broader rules regardless where one's at
a rippling mollusc undergirds his grid
in non-Euclidean geometry
complexity can no longer stay hid
in contemplating space-time at high 'g'
no rail embankment's constant as a rock
by which to calibrate measuring sticks
and now Lorentz has smashed our very clock
the rest can change and only 'c' is fixed
yet fuzziness still dogs the smallest size
until we know if gravity's quantized

relativity

the parabolic arc of my dropped book
becomes a line in 'nuther ref'rence frame
when what I see depends on how I look
it takes some thought to see that they're the same
Minkowsky tosses even that bedrock
and Gauss would liberate us from the plane
Lorentz deprives us of our very clock
and leaves it all for Einstein to explain
coordinates can't but conform to mass
and Newton just described a special case
a neighborhood devoid of even gas
a Galilean inter-stellar waste
we celebrate what we can dimly see
a hundred years* of relativity


*in my subjective reference frame

private lens

incompetence is hard to self-assess
the top performers always harbor doubt
but rarely will the many who know less
appreciate the wisdom they're without
Dave Dunning leant this paradox his name
that no one had remarked upon 'til now
a funny hook on which to hang his fame
among the journal-reading middle-brow
the Trump phenomenon is scant surprise
from his perspective, all he does is Great!
there's never anyone who verifies
his only genius is exploiting hate
his stubby fingers strain for the brass ring
a Walter Mitty thinks himself a king

let us make gods in our own image

God has no hands but those we lend the tasks
God has no face but those seen in the street
we fool ourselves with images and masks
that may evoke, but must be incomplete
we sing of "up" but should be gazing in
conceptualizing causes from "out there"
that lead us willy-nilly into "sin"
but they're just gods and castles on the air
the opiate of masses serves the king
who wants to keep us harnessed to his goal
and if we'd only give him everything
he'll free us from the burden of control
no long white beard keeps us infantilized
if once we were adults in our own eyes

another voice

a camping trip with dad could do us good
away from mom and flocks and chores and tents
he's got the fire and I've the dry split wood
was I supposed to bring the sacrament?
his promise doesn't make sense in this life
although our little clan has all we need
fulfillment would require I have a wife
to propagate his values and his seed
if I'm to die, how's that supposed to work?
mom's always told me I'm his only one
since he kicked out that woman and her jerk
where's he--so old--to get another son?
we two alone, my old man's flipped his lid
convinced that I'm the sacrificial kid

the seamy side

a second son with no inheritance
obliged to seek his fortune overseas
young Jason staked his life on one slim chance
to win rhapsodic immortality
the dragon would have stopped him in his tracks
had he not found an ally and a guide
who bought the hero his safe passage back
his super-competent exotic bride
Euripides stood all this on its head
a modern eye turned on the antique work
to focus on Medea's role instead
and show up Jason as a preening jerk
her suicide must be implied, off-stage
but theater-goers still thrill to her rage      

perspective

a thornbush burning makes no spectacle
to hold a trembling nation rapt in awe
but starting intimate was suitable
to turn Moshe to study what he saw
explosive wonders mesmerize a crowd
and get the multitude into the street
but revelation need not be so loud
to reach a  humble shepherd on bare feet
against the cosmos we're the merest blip
asserting we're creation's lofty goal
a species on a diva's ego-trip
insisting ours must be the starring role
a still small voice that's only in your head
is all the hint you'll get that God's not dead

scale

a thornbush burning makes no spectacle
to hold a trembling nation rapt in awe
but starting intimate was suitable
to turn Moshe to study what he saw
explosive wonders mesmerize a crowd
and get the multitude into the street
but revelation need not be so loud
to reach a  humble shepherd on bare feet
against the cosmos we're the merest blip
asserting we're creation's lofty goal
a species on a diva's ego-trip
insisting ours must be the starring role
a still small voice that's only in your head
is all the hint you'll get that God's not dead