The Wise, a Poem

You sit around and think.
And you realize some of what you thought you knew, you didn’t.
You think of the errors you’ve made.
At times, it can be tough.

Songs play. Some are laments about the past.
Others express pride about actions taken.
In the end, our reflections are our own.
Assuming we choose to reflect at all.

Some reflection is good.
A corrective soul tonic, it is.
Too much reflection can leave us baking in joylessness.
Life is for living.

So much technology today.
So many ways for us to spend our time.
Yet, there are those things which are fundamental.
And they are technologically immutable.

Well, they are technologically immutable, so far.
I hope it remains that way.
The joy of a walk in nature.
Feelings of love, that most human calling.

Earlier on, I lived with a lot of “I know.”
Now, days are lived in the “I don’t know.”
Yet there is a certain peace in not knowing.
Wisdom is no simple formula of intelligence times knowledge.

I am not wise. Though, I aspire to be.
We all have aspirations. We all have dreams.
Some of our dreams are martyred to practicality.
We can, however, allow the dream of wisdom to burn forever bright.

The knowledgeable know lilac from rose.
The wise might be low on taxonomies, but they know to smell the flowers.
Trained dancers might dazzle us upon the dance floor.
The wise might not be so trained but are unafraid to look less than graceful.

The dance of life calls for endless stumbling.
The wise stumble along.
They are free from the self-limiting shackles of ego.
They dance and smell the flowers and stumble.

Without wisdom, we spend too much time in a cocoon of illusion.
We convince ourselves there is more time than there is.
The wise are not involved in this process of convincing.
Instead, they live. They live. Live!

Image courtesy of [Nat_Stocker] /

You can reach me with your questions and comments at