“The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today.” – Franklin D. Roosevelt

“The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today.” – Franklin D. Roosevelt

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson


Let Love Forever Echo
by Michael Doyle
Let love forever echo
Every moment's hello
Spoken by Jesus's name
Within the holy picture frame.
Life is known like a fire,
Filled with arguable desire.
To walk in His power,
Reborn with every passing hour.
He brings this joy we're feeling,
As I walk through my healing.
Bringing sight to the blind,
Knowing His love is the best we'll find.
Bringing light into the darkness,
Removing all essence of harshness.
Shining through the shadows,
His Love carries me everywhere I go.
Down to life's final wire,
His love burns like a holy fire.
There is peace in His presence,
Changing my life with its essence.
(c) May 22, 2025 Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved

“Our first obligation to them and ourselves is plain enough: The United States and the freedom for which it stands, the freedom for which they died, must endure and prosper. Their lives remind us that freedom is not bought cheaply. It has a cost; it imposes a burden. And just as they whom we commemorate were willing to sacrifice, so too must we — in a less final, less heroic way — be willing to give of ourselves.” – Ronald Reagan

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. -Arthur Conan Doyle, physician and writer (22 May 1859-1930)


No Hiding
by Michael Doyle
Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction,
With a whisper of angst, you find it in the friction.
It's the slow burn of ambiguous moral values,
Hammered hard as if by some forsaken miscue.
I like a friend with some mischief in their eyes,
Whatever else they might wear as their disguise.
Is the lost love enough to serve to save you,
Pulling you from the abyss of that busy that you do.
There's no hiding when truth finally comes to town.
Comedy may be king but it's an ill-fitting crown.
We trust in mother nature and her children in their possibility
To bring about nature's equilibrium with humility.
In this age, our righteous anger finds too many words
As we walk an empty land filled with the overly absurd.
Targets of opportunity make their way into faded satire,
While the dark humor of cosmic justice openly conspires.
When you make your living with your open mind,
Retirement feels like the loss of what's left behind.
Lambasting power and money would seem like futility,
If it wasn't vested in the hermit's secret identity.
(c) May 21, 2025 Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved

“But let not the foundation of our hope rest upon man’s wisdom. It will not be sufficient that sectional prejudices find no place in the public deliberations. It will not be sufficient that the rash counsels of human passion are rejected. It must be felt that there is no national security but in the nation’s humble, acknowledged dependence upon God and His overruling providence.” – Franklin Pierce

“No one should be ashamed to admit they are wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that they are wiser today than they were yesterday.” – Alexander Pope


The Shaman's Missing Chord
by Michael Doyle
The struggle for life's force,
The mystery in seeking its source,
Blazed as Morrison's eyes glow.
On what side would we learn to know.
It's easier to scare an audience,
Portraying the figure of scorn and diffidence.
Twirling into a dance from the beyond,
Morrison did his best to describe where he had gone.
Missing the pattern and seeking his lost chord,
The poet and madman fell deeply on his own sword.
Riding surrealistic images like breaking waves,
These are the treasures buried in secret graves.
In a celebration of the forlorn Lizard King,
There were always endless passages to sing.
He started his quest for the stars already born.
He would begin his own ascent with locks unshorn.
Unpunctuated puzzles connect the dots as solved.
A closer look finds so much that remains unresolved.
Indulged by words of a mystifying, esthetic energy,
The songs left unsung were made up of his imagery.
Missing the pattern and seeking his lost chord,
The poet and madman fell deeply on his own sword.
Riding surrealistic images like breaking waves,
These are the treasures buried in secret graves.
A man can hurt beyond the point of feeling any hurt.
Standing there staring in the distance of half-alert,
Singing characters into what might pass for life.
Will there be any peace to find after all of this strife?
If he doesn't remember his birth, did it happen as said?
The followed visions that roam inside the shaman's head
Muddy canals and peeling colonnades were filled with sentiment
That told the tale of boots dragged up from the passing sediment.
Missing the pattern and seeking his lost chord,
The poet and madman fell deeply on his own sword.
Riding surrealistic images like breaking waves,
These are the treasures buried in secret graves.
(c) May 20, 2025 Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved

“A person may cause evil to others not only by his actions but by his inaction, and in either case he is justly accountable to them for the injury.” – John Stuart Mill, philosopher and economist (20 May 1806-1873)

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