Countless small sparks in a maze of maneuver
Like flickering flames buried deep in the dark
Shimmering, shifting, and boiling below

Less venomous than fire ants I've known;
At least from a distance.
Much prettier too;
From a distance.

We must be warned that coffee's hot,
that smoking hurts the lung.
Knives are sharp and spoons are not,
and sunscreen blocks the sun.

We must not eat the non-food pack,
that freshens packaged foods.
Know calories might make us fat,
and sleep might make us drool.

Labels warn that water's wet,
and bullets might go bang.
Signs to warn of dangers met,
adorn each mundane thing.

We used to use our eyes and think,
to see, assess, then act.
Replaced with warnings bold in ink, 
a talisman of words and fact.

A million years of sand and rain made me who I am
Built up, compressed, washed clean and worn down.
Rusty red, sandy blond, and streaked with black.
I defy the elements openly as an acrobat would 
For Newton pulls heavy on my ancient spine.
Yet I arch high overhead triumphant and grand
Shade from a withering sun for strangers below. 

If only people understood how un-cool secret stuff really is… Scott Adams came close in this strip:

The super secret squirrels convened
Their meeting in the vault
Each day at noon they gathered there
Discussing who knows what

The watchers all looked in from out
As blind and dumb and deaf
As though they had no mouth or ears
To use for baited breath

Whispers swirled from left to right
Then back around again
Tales of conquests in the works
Cabals of greed and sin

Murmurings of secret tech
Sensors, planes, and tools
Laser guns and mind control
Oh man... 

Almost endless years of school
Countless hours of study
Promotions moving ever up
An awful sense of duty

To be the expert and make change
A constant goal since youth
Use of hands and head at once
Connecting truth with truth

Explore and build to meet demand
Reflect on what's been made
More to know you've done it right
Than strictly to get paid

A phantom of some lingering dream
Haunting daily chores
Wants unmet in truthful life
Like salt in open sores

No new ideas are his today
Great works he builds no more
He simply gathers and compiles

I’ve always liked writing, but rarely get a chance to write things not formal, technical, or even worse… bureaucratic.  Given my background, you’d think anything artistic would have atrophied years ago, and in truth it probably has.  However, though unqualified and not particularly gifted, every once in a while I get an urge to dust off the non-analytical parts of my self and see just how much of it is left.

In a home filled with artistic, musical, and literary talent, I often end up filling the requirement for an audience.  It’s unlikely anyone would ask me to perform when … Read the rest