Overheard in Cyberspace

2020-12-13

Announcement

I have decided that, henceforth, I will post no more to this blog. It has served me well, and I thank Blogger (the editing site that posts my work to BlogSpot) for hosting my work so far.

But I can reach a wider audience by publishing on Medium.com. If you care to follow me there, my profile page is paulharder2.medium.com. I'll probably keep one poem or another pinned to the top of the page -- currently, it's "Who Am I?" Anything new will post immediately below that.

If you are one of the three or four people on the planet who use one of the many RSS feed readers to get my work, you can now subscribe by pasting this URL into your feed reader: https://medium.com/feed/@PaulHarder2

2020-11-29

Night Writer

The dark of night is this poet's lair.
Oh, sure, I write in the bright, fair day,
but the good thoughts come with nighttime air,
and the great arrive while dreams hold sway
(but then, by morning, melt away).

2020-11-28

2020 Christmas Wish List

For Christmas this year, I want
to go to the airport to board
a flight to another time
or wake from a postprandial nap,
to learn it was all a bad dream.

For Christmas this year, I wish
for a normal feast,
pandemonium, not pandemic,
with the missing multitude
still here to celebrate.

For Christmas this year, I pray
for understanding
of you by me, of me by you,
that we hear each other
and know we are the same.

Author’s Note: This poem grew from one of those silly Facebook challenges: In the Facebook app, start a post with “For Christmas this year I want” and then hit the middle, predictive button until you form a sentence. When I tried it, the first three lines emerged. From there, I just had to write the poem.

2020-10-25

The Greenway

Walking through the woods today,
I wonder who prepared the way.
Whose boots have made the path I tread?
What sylvan thoughts were in their head?

Did they observe these squirrels at play,
who scoot, then freeze, then dash away?
Did greenery calm their day's pursuits,
while they too tripped on surfaced roots?

Did they see God in bark and leaf?
Did birdsong bolster their belief
in Him who takes our every care,
who gives the very life we share?

Did they remark their calm-smoothed brow,
then go back home to ponder how
to keep this peaceful, forest glade
secure from axe and dozer blade?

I hope so.

2020-10-17

Snake Oil

He sells a prescription,
a medical fiction
that can't really cure our ills.

It comes from no science,
is but an appliance
of one who won't care whom he kills,

who hopes it distracts
from disquieting facts
about how he's exerting his will.

This fells his proponents
much more than opponents,
yet most of them vote for him still.

2020-09-21

Emergence

It’s dark here,
inside the chrysalis,
and cold.
Dreams come slowly
and dissolve incoherently
Into each other.
A dog barks, but it’s an owl
asking big questions,
now a whisper through silk.
But this new dream
smells different, breathes deeper.
A tiny dot of light
and she struggles toward it.
The light grows, she fights free.
Weakly, she extends muddy-hued wings,
one to north, one to south.
They dry into brilliant
red, orange, yellow.
Presently, rested,
the Dawn leaps into blueness
and dances into the sun.

2020-08-07

Cheap Grace

We get what we pay for, most of the time.
Yet folks look for bargains, dollars for dimes.
We buy one and get one, wanting things free.
But something for nothing? Too rich for me!

See, I've got a free thing, treasure for sure.
It's God's own forgiveness, Death's final cure.
It came to me freely, Jesus' true Gift,
else I would be hopeless, aimless, adrift.

Beside this, what "free" thing merits the term?
They all carry costs, just hard to discern.
The greatest such cost, though? Cheapening grace,
consigning the Gift to coupon-clip space.

I cherish the free things that truly are free,
like presents I get from those dear to me.
And God's perfect Gift, the ultimate case,
makes retail promotions seem only waste.

No, speak not of free stuff. Sell me your goods
and charge a fair tariff. That's understood.
I've no wish for shortcuts, not for my part.
So give me no free stuff, save from your heart.

Commander’s Call

Evenings, the egrets return to base,
cruising in squadron formation.
At dawn, they deploy,
each to its own post.
But, early one day,
two dozen convened by our pond,
lighting in adjacent trees,
to hear the day’s ops plan.
From the topmost branch,
the Colonel briefed Alpha Flight,
then swooped to the other tree
to dispatch Bravo.
Orders acknowledged,
all launched, save the Colonel,
who glided gracefully down,
took command of the shallows,
and began solitary patrol.

Copyright ©2020, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

2020-07-03

Something to Believe In

Believe in something,

for living without must leave us in doubt,

insecure.

Believe in yourself,

the pundits will say. But what if the way

is obscure?

Believe not at all?

What then is life for? But there must be more,

I adjure.

Believe, then, in what?

Or should I say “whom”? Who pierces all gloom,

to assure?

Believe in the Lord.

Wherever you fare, He's already there,

true and pure.

This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

I really like the music of the song of the same title, by the Irish group Clannad, in collaboration with Bruce Hornsby. The lyrics, though, say that everybody is looking but the search is hopeless. This is my response.