Moonlight, Moonbrigh, First Moon I See Tonight

I know not why the moon smiles upon me
Twisted and wry, tilted to one side
Stars for dimples. craters for teeth
A small sign of hope you bequeath
To we below, with hearts so tried,
Are we who your smile was meant to see?

I know not why the moon continues to grin,
so we wonder in awe at the sunny point of view, and watch
horizon to horizon, steadfast with our eyes on
the moon, as we put a pallid disguise on,
the moon does fade, without whom day starts anew
The smile is gone and the mourning begins.

By my count

It is not the first feeling you get. Probably not even the second. No, by my count, it is the seventh feeling one feels while watching someone else succeed. The first is that tingly bit you get going up and down your spine. In watching all these medals being paraded about at the Olympics, I most certainly got that tingly touch. But somewhere along the line, around the pool and behind the medal stand I got that feeling. One I did not like so much. Gold, silver, bronze. Nothing. Very simple stick to measure success against. But since competitive eating has yet to become an olympic sport (I hear it will be considered again when the games come back to America, because we are such heavy favorites) I will not be judged to that criterion. Which leads me to the feeling, that slippery feeling in my stomach (could be the sushi) that drags all the way down to my toes at which I am inclined to look. Hung head, I said. What is success in my life? Who will be there to post my scores as wiggle my way across the balance beam of life? And yes, life is a balance beam by default, only because there is no high wire competition. Do I define mine successes? Here's what my gold medal routine would sound like: "Oh and what an elegant stretch as he really kicks off those sheets! And here it is, the most difficult part of the routine, a quarter turn bed-dismount... the twist... and.. HE STICKS THE LANDING!!" Go me!... Perhaps it is up to history to judge me a success. Pray it remembers me as a greater success than the Iraq war...

Potentia-

Harmless, I am, I would say, as

In the desk, a gun with a bullet,

Gentle metal inclined to reflecting,

Until someone take trigger and pull it

Releasing

explosive thoughts down the barrel,

a chance, we may see, what position,

prostrate or magnate, is achieved through

the sheer force of man's volition.

Promising

bullet soars on perigrine wings,

perigrine, veiled but for master's calling,

on his will, blind justice in your talon,

lucky you who did not see the bodies falling.

Kneeling, and now,

Harmful, I am, I would say, as,

In the desk, a gun with a bullet,

and trigger, such coiled potential that

even good intentions destroy when I pull it.