Author: Nick

There was no fortitude, no wit

There was no fortitude, no wit;
When I was sick there were demands
To spend a decade in the pit.

Only despair was definite
As sanity slipped through my hands.
There was no fortitude, no wit.

An awful, furtive reprobate,
No other form of fool could stand
To spend a decade in the pit.

On the cave's wall I saw it writ:
Lonely are those in a foreign land.
There was no fortitude, no wit.

Then I was blessed with an intimate,
And it had all become so much sand
To spend a decade in the pit.

It's all for him that I commit,
To climb together for something grand.
There was no fortitude, no wit
To spend a decade in the pit.

We are nothing and nothing more

We are nothing and nothing more:
A thought perhaps, a breath of air,
Contingencies that shift and tear.

Strong or weak or rich or poor,
All are the same who know the fare,
Know we're entitled but to tour
A thought, perhaps a breath of air.

Those who are solid find their core
Is as part of a fleeting share
Of something renewing; so why care
We are nothing and nothing more—
A thought perhaps, a breath of air,
Contingencies that shift and tear.

Something Sure

Something sure is not so near 
Hunting thoughts grasp its allure.
Seeming rather very far,
Streams of wrath come curse the cure.

Despairing to make some more,
Who cares will break, squirm, and stir
Daily grinds year after year
Praying to find something sure.

Helmet’s Return

Now we see why Helmet was gone of late,
And it comes with quite a revelation:
Helmet is a girl! Had she gone to mate?

She has her nest in the same location
As Mom did, at the laundry room between
The AC unit and wall adjacent.

It's perfect, shortly before this we'd seen
Her reappear amongst this family
Who hatched right there on that very same scene.

Many little soon-to-be progeny
Beneath her downy bosom incubate,
And we pray she's rewarded handsomely. 

The second generation to propagate
Since we began to keep tabs on our friends
Is upon us; it's a difficult wait.

It's still months until brooding season ends.
I pray they will be kept safe from the drakes,
Or if birds-of-prey-disguised death descends.

Although anxiety for these ducks makes
Up quite a chunk of my expectant thoughts,
To see them flourish my waiting heart aches.

Little puffs of down all around her dot
Her nest where we counted somewhere around
Eleven eggs within this most blessed spot!

Who can wait to hear that heartwarming sound—
Ducklings cheeping in perfect innocence
As they swarm and skitter across the ground?

This season continues with cryptic hints,
The swapping days of warm and cold belie
Their secret day of hatching's imminence.

Newborn mallards have hatched somewhere nearby, 
Perhaps on this first day of the new year.
Soon Helmet's chicks will poke out and arrive.

Though nothing more of the future is clear,
I dream of them joining us in growth here.

After the Loss of Miracle the Duckling

The sun descends before a mere
Mortal could ever fathom when,
And that's what fills humans with fear.

Black, indelible ink; the pen
Proscribes loved and unloved while I
Feel the true fear of change again.

These nearly-limitless things vie,
Each one of them so small at birth;
Yet some it sees fit to deny.

Lives inestimable in worth,
Newly born; why do some survive
While others get but days on Earth?

Why is it while they were alive
The bloody blade reaped thereupon
And nothing done could help them thrive?

I hear the doleful singing swan
Echo my thoughts. I must praise.
Even after, new young will spawn.

There will be more ducklings to raise;
Even those we've lost will be kept,
Remembered my remaining days.

And beyond when my windows wept,
They have their niche that they've occupied;
I'm a moment to intercept.

In all my childish, misty-eyed
Attachment I forfeit most sense,
For this is how they've multiplied.

Citification built the fence
Which separates and shelters me.
Life becomes unreal and intense.

Competition is anomie
To one with precious much to lose;
Life and fear in synonymy.

Such is the case for one who views
Constant struggle through rationale
And the tragedy it imbues,

But how could an animal scowl
At the fate of life, its one gift?
They don't see things as fair or foul.

They only know the life they lift
From the seed of their forebears' soil
And the changes of seasons' shift.

They're not averse to earthly toil,
Their being, both parcel and part
Of their place in this mortal coil.

As such there's never loss of heart
For them when tragedy befalls
Their life, the ever-forward dart.

An indomitable will calls
Their spirits onward with elan
Uncomprehending of our galls.

These ducks have but a single plan,
Which is to be what they will be
And to nurture their little clan;

To follow their ancestral tree
With peace wild and docile at once,
My darling ducks, this family.

So even when misfortune hunts,
I trust these ducks will persevere
Through both dreary and merry months.

They could be my teachers of cheer,
Wary for their safety and yet
Unknowing existential fear.

They simply take what they can get.
They remain happy and content,
Though looking out for any threat.

They're unafraid how much is spent,
It's all for life and it's all fair.
That's how nature builds its ascent.

A million generations' wear
Strengthens the very DNA
Which brings all creatures up to bear.

Very little controls the sway
Of fate. But, as their parents had,
They grow confident with each day.

It's like their souls are armor-clad,
Uncrippled by softhearted pain
That never fails to drive me mad.

Nature is indifferent to strain.
Prepared for total loss, it gains.

Last Sunday

In the evening the great grey sail is drawn;
Now, Tampa, the rains are beginning to pour.
I hear it thump over the HVAC's yawn
And the jammed traffic from Raymond James' door.
I heard the Bucs won and the final score
Was forty-to-something, though who they played
I don't know; usually there's fans galore
For any visitors, but today I made
My way to work with the game underway.
The rain has given way to blackness, laid
Upon our hut of lights and slow decay.
As easy a Sunday as any here,
Albeit the last Sunday of the year.

Goodwill

Smiling with friends is what gets you smiled on;
The will determines, so let it be good.
Goodwill is the path the masters styled on.

How many humdrum days have been withstood, 
Bleeding together in monotony;
A good humor repaints them as it should.

Even here in the labor colony,
Life can be life if one allows it to.
Integrate goodwill with economy.

Look at your fellow as part of the crew
Weathering life on our vessel of soul,
Each in search of a piece of what is true.

Friendliness and compassion as the goal
Recreates from our common solitude
A feeling that the universe is whole.

There's much that can be gained and much eschewed,
Doors open and progress may resonate
When approached with positive attitude.

Even when enduring frustrating waits
Or rushing through the chaos of a blur,
There are opportunities to create;

Character that can be built, as it were,
Exercising fellowship and patience, 
Growing into the person I'd prefer. 

Why not work for positive relations?
There were years when that was impossible.
Happiness allowed the new nascence.

So how did happiness deposit, full
Of life-giving change for my stagnant gloom?
To not say would be irresponsible.

And yet I can't answer; was it the flume
Of love or maybe good drugs, I don't know.
Does anyone understand their own doom?

Peace is sudden and surprising in scope;
Once you have it try not to let it go.

Ducks on the Bridge

The evening breezes tossed our hair about
As we approached the wooden bridge's gate.
On the handrails four of our friends were couched, 
Enjoying an eminent perch out late.
But when we sidled up to them to scout,
They shifted around. Though we hoped they'd wait,
George decided he would fly; and his flaps
Peppered his adjacent brothers with slaps.

Percy and Norm were standing beside him
As he opened his wings, readying flight.
They seemed bewildered, though not quite frightened;
I saw Norm raise his crest, though it was slight.
They sat with Marble after abiding
Their brother's barrage of blows feather-light.
At last these three lay down in settled ease;
We left them to sleep with the midnight breeze.