Three Poems about Life

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This Sunday, new tradition. No politics Sunday is inaugurated. So I present my three recent poems. To see more of my poetry you can go to Lettrs or Poetry Soup. Enjoy the peace from politics today.




Do Butterflies go to and from,

Or do they just wander some,

Do they land on a flower with intent?

Or just when their wings are spent,


A small breeze can turn one around,

Lift, it off the ground,

Do they have homes, nest, or such?

or really would that be too much,


They say Butterflies are free,

How, having no home, not even a tree,

Aren’t they bound as a nomad,

Not free but driven as in chains of sin,


Do our minds go to and from,

Or do we just meander some,

Thoughts, actions, people so many things,

Much harder to steer than delicate wings,


As a breeze turns a butterfly around,

A misplaced word makes our knees weak, falling down,

Aren’t our plans like butterfly wings,

Easily tossed, turned, spinning fiercely into things,


I don’t think butterflies worry about the night,

She sleeps wherever she may lite,

Why should we despair the present?

Nothing is sure, nothing is meant or sent.


But free will have we, yes,

Like a ship sailing out to sea,

To grasp, cling, to our mind,

Only sadness and suffering we find,


Chaos knocks at our door, not to bind us, bind us, bind us,

Chaos blows in and she frees us, frees us, frees us,

Then like a butterfly each moment we see,

Cause butterflies see, and are truly free,


Are you fearful of the night?

Of those who bristle, struggle and fight,

Do you love totally, laugh loudly, live precisely?

Both have the same gift to give,


It’s all suffering the Buddha said to me,

Compassion misted as devas sang, it doesn’t have to be,

If one butterfly is free,

Aren’t they all, can this you see?

The chains fell behind me.





My Springs in Napoli

skylark woman


My viewpoint with espresso in hand,

Of such beauty seen not in my land,

I travel to Napoli each spring,

Same room, same portal, it makes me sing,


I’ve never seen her on the cobble road below,

Only on her balcony, the second row,

Does she think I dare to be spying,

I would for sure, there is no denying,



Once I waved across the way,

No movement or word did she say,

I stare and wonder quite a while,

But there she froze with her placid smile,


The next spring I dropped in Napoli way,

He door bolted the whole first day,

I ask the porter who knocked upon my door,

Where is the lovely lady, from the second floor,


I pointed directly across the cobbled road,

He looked strangely, his eyes very cold,

Why are you perplexed at a simple thing,

He whispered, She died of heartbreak one spring,


Dancing, singing before, I know he has me a ring

But only a letter came that spring,

That very night, she hung dead, dragging the floor,

was many years ago, we boarded shut that door,






When we are small, small
We always fall, always fall
A small scar it may leave,
But insignificant we believe, we believe

When we are teens, tweens,
We always fall, fall, fall,
A small, small scar it may leave,
Our very self, self it smothers we believe,

Crazy, crazy, crazy, life sings, sings,
A monster every shadow brings, brings,
Our knowledge is at its peak we speak, we speak,
The monster, destroying, dying, dying we squeak,

Emptiness we feel, loss, hopelessness, hopelessness,
Leading foolishly, I myself can confess, yes I confess,
If we can grasp, squeeze with all our might, fight, we will find,
No monster, no shadow, no fear, only our mind, only mind.

By Jim Kirk-Wiggins ©



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