Love is a feeling,
A force of the will,
Perhaps revealing
A sort of skill
At truly discerning
Beneath the skin
The fire burning
The heart within.

Dostoyevsky was an addicted gambler,
Whose best characters are loquacious ramblers
Who frequently verge into the absurd.
But since he was getting paid by the word
And was on a personal moral mission,
He brought great novels to fruition.

Boethius called the Muses of Poetry names ( Read more... )

Some say that existence exists ( Read more... )

As a philosopher, Seneca promoted
Maintaining tranquility in the face of trauma,
However as a playwright he emoted
All over the stage with tragic bloody drama.
Scholars question which is the truer side,
But I imagine equal parts of a whole:
The stoic Jekyll and the dramatic Hyde
Springing together from one tormented soul.

Whose words these are, I think I know ( Read more... )

Goddess of Grain, standing among the clouds,
Atop the tower called the Board of Trade,
One hundred years, almost, you’ve watched the crowds
That fill the streets below, like a parade
Of hungry life, the market-makers hustling,
The lawyers squabbling as the deals get made,
And back behind the scene, the bankers bustling
To pile the money up, and then to ( Read more... )

Ask your doctor if X is right for you ( Read more... )

Said the maple to the oak,
Fall is here and that’s no joke.
I’ve put on my scarlet cloak.

Said the oak tree to the maple,
There’s a shade of copper cable…
That’s the brightest I am able.

Said the trees then to each other,
Soon we’ll face the winter weather,
Standing proudly, bare together.

My speech was rather unclear.

Somehow I didn’t hear

The shimmering sounds of words

Quite like others heard.

This struggle went on for years,

Let’s say till I was eight.

And so I grew to hate

Not being understood -

Which lived on, as an inmost fear,

Long, long afterward.