Genetic Irony

I hated my teenage appearance,

Especially my “Common” brown eyes;

Wishing I’d black hair and blue ones,

Like all the popular guys.

I realized as I grew older,

How rich was the color brown…

Culturally diverse and fertile soil,

Both high status in my town.

I found my eyes in later years,

Like Opals, sometimes yellow or green;

The color of eyes incidental,

Compared to the world they’ve seen.

The Fog

The fog horn sings a sorrowful song

Anchored alone in the sound…

My dreams hear the melancholy,

Tune it out and run aground.

Awakened from my slumber,

The buoy lulls me back to sleep…

For hours I’ll think of nothing;

The horn continues to watch and weep.

From On High

I’m flying across the continent

In a coveted window seat,

Observing the states below me,

At thirty-three thousand feet.

So many towns look miniature,

Small as the point of a pin…

I wonder how my life would be,

Had I picked one point and settled in?

Could I water ski on the lake below,

Looking now like a thimble pond?

Is there a person now invisible…

To whom I’d grow incredibly fond?

I bet if I made the return trip,

In a car and not so fast…

I’d see the same towns magnified,

With still the same questions asked.