Poetry

The Seashell

Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Wed, 03/25/2015 - 21:30

I hold a seashell in my hand.

I’d picked it up
on a morning walk
beside the breaking surf.

I hold it gently,
looking in wonder and awe
ar the intricate designs
that once protected
a living organism.

I hold a seashell in my hand.

As I walk along
I hold the shell
in my hand
almost forgetting
it’s there
as it fits just right
and is now
the same temperature
as my hand.

I hold a seashell in my hand.

I pause to remember the seashell
to feel its weight
and its place
along with the other shells I hold
as I start my long walk home.

(Categories:

Poetry

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The Kaleidoscope

Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Tue, 03/24/2015 - 21:37

With mirrors
and odd shaped pieces
of colored glass,
the world looks magically ordered.

Yet looking the other direction
reveals nothing interesting.

(Categories:

Poetry

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Simple Math ( for #SaveSweetBriar )

Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Mon, 03/23/2015 - 21:50

In my good liberal arts education I learned that
the whole is great than
the sum of its parts.

I learned that grain upon grain makes
the impossible heap.

I learned that one and one and fifty
can change the world,
but still can’t find the lyrics.

I learned that to better understand,
a good liberal arts education is needed.

Yet now, the simple bean counters
can’t see the impossible heap,
so they try to close down a college.

Now, politicians argue about taxes
remembering statistics about millions
while missing tragedy of a single child
going hungry.

Today, students at a small liberal arts college
are getting a real education
as they fight not for the grade or degree,
but for something that matters much more.

It’s not just a campus,
or tradition,
or a favorite professor.

It is for something much more important
in this twenty-first century,
something that too many
seem to be forgetting.

It is how we understand life
how we care for one another.
It is the value of a real
liberal arts education.

(Categories:

Poetry

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The Intersection

Submitted by Aldon Hynes on Sun, 03/22/2015 - 20:27

The two paths that crossed in the woods
a couple hundred years ago
became the wagon paths
when the trees were cut for farmland.

Now, the commuters pause at the four way stop
deciding whose turn it is to go next.
The schools buses cautiously proceed
and others stop on the way to the store.

The widow pauses, waiting for her turn
as she remembers being a young mother
on the way to school or the shops.

A visitor passes through
never even thinking
of the lives that cross this intersection.

The fashions have changed
as have the seasons.
The poet still pauses
to ponder Whitman’s friends
in the usual costumes,
and the day comes to an end.

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