In Praise of Growing Old

How else would i come to understand
(Other than from my garden)
That decay nourishes life?

How better to learn
That humility
Is no mere virtue,
But a survival skill?

What better way to appreciate
The fleeting heroism of youth?

When else would i understand,
In my viscera,
The smooth, accelerating curves
That are the contours of time?

How else would i know
That there is no God,
Except the beingness,
The eagerness of forward-leaning
Life
That, given half a chance,

Restlessly proclaims
The "is-ing"
That everywhere
Is?

How else would i know
The arc
Of an unending love?

How else
Would i learn
To say goodbye?

--Mr. Gobley

The Elegant, Intelligent Telephone

It knows me.
It says so.

It marshalls a parade of universes under my nose,
Customized to my vanities and idiosyncrasies.

It orders my day,
Proffers my priorities,
Summarizes my finances,
Reminds me of meetings.

All the variables of life --
All tragedies,
Mysteries,
Great loves,
Approaching thunderstorms --
Are known to it.

What was so recently impossible
Is now indispensable.

Nothing exists
That cannot be ordered,
Animated,
Displayed;

My hand commands a universe:
Another galaxy of
Illumined cubes
Slides into view;

i am summoned . . .
--Mr. Gobley