Pat Grieco
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Pat Grieco
@iampatg.bsky.social
200 followers 7 following 550 posts
Author, Poet, Philosopher, Songwriter

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Today’s Thought - #poetry #writingcommunity #author #philosophy

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Change is often a substitute for progress. PG
November 24, 2025 at 1:00 PM
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Kindness By Pat Grieco What is kindness? What constitutes a kind act? Is it helping someone in need when there is no compelling reason to do so? bringing civilization to savages? comforting someone in distress when you could easily walk away? stopping someone from doing something because it's for their own good? easing someone's way through a time of turmoil, hardship, or loss? hiding the truth when the truth would be unbearable? bringing the word of God to the unenlightened? shading an answer so that someone's feelings are not hurt? avoiding discussion of a subject that would be uncomfortable? giving money to someone begging on the street? giving of time and effort to a charitable cause? Why are we kind? Is it because it is what we are? because it makes us feel good? because it is expected of us? to hide our true nature? Are we only kind to our family and perhaps our friends? Are we only kind to strangers to rely on that first impression to influence what may follow? Is an act of kindness really kind if it somehow hurts another, if it stems from selfish motivations, if it prevents choice or free will, if it is done with an ulterior motive? Many things considered kind are in fact not. Sometimes "kind" is used as a euphemism to cover an act or action taken to "help" another. Sometimes it is used to cover an omission or inaction as someone is "only trying to be kind." Sometimes it is used as an invective or a curse. "I will never rely on the kindness of others." Can an act be kind if the intended recipient does not want it? Can an act be kind if the recipient expects it? Can an act be kind if its ultimate effect is to bring hardship and pain? When is an act truly kind? What is kindness?
November 23, 2025 at 3:41 PM
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The essence of human existence is choice, for with each choice a new world is born and in that new world, anything is possible. PG
November 21, 2025 at 2:52 PM
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Jolly Wastrel By Pat Grieco I am a jolly wastrel awash in the joys of life. I have no time to worry for the cares of daily strife. There's just too much to see and do to ever wear a frown as I travel roads and byways through villages and towns. I have no need for money but for pleasures it may buy along dark streets and alleys or under open skies or in the fancy parlours within a well-sprung house to gain the sweet attentions of a long-neglected spouse. And if I play a game or two of dice or perhaps cards, I'll gladly take donations from the wealth that you so guard to never spend it freely, to keep it all locked up, to hide it all is such a waste of an overflowing cup. So let me spend it for you. Let me ease your mind by using some of your vast wealth that keeps you so confined. It doesn't make you happy. It only makes you blue. Let me show you how to live and joys that will ensue if you'll simply come with me tonight beyond these pale white walls. We'll have the very best of times within the bawdy halls where lies true entertainment. It's not so far away. You'll never have a better chance, so come with me and play. We'll have a splendid evening and then a glorious day. Never mind those jealous folk who whisper when they say that I'm a jolly wastrel with faults and sins most rife while secretly they envy my most exciting life. So come with me. Oh, come with me to till some unplowed fields. Life's wordly pleasures do await for you to simply yield to this wastrel's earnest pleadings, to this wastrel's sage advice, a Don't throw your life away like this or you'll regret it thrice, Enjoy yourself. Come, sow some oats. Cast all your cares agley. Come share this wastrel's jolly life. Don't waste another day. Let's be but jolly wastrels awash in the joys of life with only time for pleasures and none for cares or strife.
November 19, 2025 at 3:32 PM
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Nurse: How's your memory? Patient: Great! I don't remember forgetting anything! PG
November 18, 2025 at 2:58 PM
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The question By Pat Grieco The question will come, perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but it will come spurred by the smallest thing, a sound, a sight, a fragment of a memory ignited into a full-blown conflagration of remembrance, regret, and guilt. Why did I survive when they did not? I did nothing different. Others were equally worthy, had just as much to live for, had loved ones waiting for them, people praying for them, with the future depending upon their return. But they did not and everything that was theirs, dreams, hopes, destinies, is gone denied by fate, by chance, by cruelty, by hatred, and the endless vagaries of a world gone mad. Why was I saved when they were not? Why am I alive when they are dead? There are no answers. There cannot be. And that lack haunts, troubles, torments, despite no outward sign of the turmoil within. Was it as simple as being lucky when they were not? Does it all come down to an inch there, a hesitation in the moment, a chance taken, or not? Why? In the dark of night, in the light of day, the question will come. Some will make peace with it. Some never will.
November 15, 2025 at 8:23 PM
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The one who believes they are infallible is mistaken. PG
November 14, 2025 at 10:09 PM
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The last rose By Pat Grieco The last rose of autumn is the most precious of all though it is no more beautiful than the year's first that gives us promise of the summer yet ahead. They both challenge us with bursts of color bright with hope and fragrance soft to touch the wayward breeze. They both cause our steps to pause, our gaze to linger, and our minds to ponder what lies ahead. One is no less vibrant than the other, no less a thing to be desired, no less lovely for its timing in the scheme of life. But this rose, this one is the last. And if winter should prevail, it will be the memory carried forth against the bitter chill. It was not expected. There was no thought of yet another bloom before the winter's snow. And yet, here it is bright with expectation for the fullness of its day beneath the waning sun. One more bloom before the snow. One surprise to make us linger and abandon thought of anything but this unexpected treasure as the leaves fall, the sky darkens, and winter beckons. The last rose of autumn is the most precious of all.
October 21, 2025 at 3:08 PM
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Never engage in a discussion with a vampire. They'll just suck the life out of the conversation. PG
October 20, 2025 at 7:27 PM
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What of Ozymandias? By Pat Grieco No matter where you lay your head or your long-held views on issues that seem simply huge, the sky is still deep blue. The wind still whispers to the birds who then sing out their songs though they may then take to the skies to soar there before long. The forest trees still gently sway to sweet nature's silent beat and sun still shines down on the Earth with all its light and heat. The oceans still rise up each day when meeting with the land and spend themselves in thunder on the rocks and on the sand. While underneath their surface the seas still hide their fish and whales who tell their stories. Oh what gossip they can dish. And lions prowl savannah. With pride there they do roam while up high in the mountains different creatures call it home. If there's any constant here, it surely isn't us who tremble at the ocean's roar and storm wind's mighty gusts. And so we try to tame them though it never can be so as long as huge waves tumble and storm fed winds do blow. Nature will not bow to us though we may see it bend to engineering marvels we shape to serve our ends. We may seek to shape the earth, changing what we find, ‘til it resembles what we see as perfect in our minds. But earth and seas and wind and sky reject our taming hand as we unwind nature's weave strand by vibrant strand to better serve our purpose, to better fit our views, but still we gaze into the sky into that deep, deep blue. Still we walk through forests and listen to the seas, watch birds winging through the sky, plant flowers for the bees. Even in our hubris, even in our pride, we need what nature gives us. In nature we abide. For even Ozymandias in all his glory found that nature in the end wins out and thus ambition bounds.
October 16, 2025 at 2:08 PM
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When you look back at the moments of your life, which ones will you treasure? Which ones will you embrace with fond affection? Which ones will fill you with regret? Reflect on this and then do more of the first, leaven with as much of the second as your heart can bear and in doing so, reduce the chances of the third. PG
October 15, 2025 at 4:29 PM
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The little things By Pat Grieco It is the little things that bring us to our selves, that touch us to our innermost places, that give us comfort in the storm and solace in the times of sorrow. It is those little things that bring us joy, that give us strength to bear what must be borne when we are most alone. They are our touchstone and our guide to peace when all else is chaos and they show us that the world is, despite all else, a known place where comfort and delight can be found in the little things.
October 14, 2025 at 4:03 PM
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Absolute freedom is anarchy. No freedom is tyranny. Democracy is the sweet spot in the middle. PG
October 12, 2025 at 3:45 PM
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Here and Now By Pat Grieco The sun warm upon our face; The breeze against our skin; The blue sky to soothe our soul; These, these are the essence of our lives despite the draw to other things, despite the dangers of the day, despite the pulling pressures of our needs and dreams. We may lose them in our rush to be upon our way, to be upon the business of living, of carving out our place in the world, but they are always there waiting to be found when we have need of them, when we need respite from the terrors of our trials, the crush of present cares, or the ending of the path. Head back, arms outstretched, breathing deeply as eyes delve depths beyond our ken and gentle touch of air restores our troubled self. It is in these moments that we are most ourselves, when brightest sun does end the solemn rain within our soul and cause our heart to surge with the joy of being here and now with future and the past forgot and now the only moment left in which to dwell.
October 11, 2025 at 8:18 PM
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The question of human existence has always been: Are we in a peace broken by periodic instances of war or in a war broken by periodic instances of peace? PG
October 9, 2025 at 1:24 PM
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Here’s a reimagining of Poe’s “The Raven” in honor of Edgar Allen Poe day.
Eleanor By Pat Grieco I was in my office, weary, awash in light both bright and cheery, when the single office window blew open wide once more. It was another midnight dreary and I approached the window leery for I had thought I'd latched it and would need to nevermore. For this was site of apparition and I, with hesitant contrition, did cautiously approach it whilst walking 'cross the floor to stop the window's ceaseless banging as its useless latch lay hanging and the wind through window harshly on me bore. But drawing near, I did then pause for there outside the window soared a solitary raven and. despite myself, I swore. The raven flew as wind did blow to land on windowsill just so and there did croak the name I dreaded, "Eleanor." "That's not her name!" I cried to it yet raven there did proudly sit until it hopped and fluttered to land upon the floor. "Begone! You foul unnatural beast and visitation now do cease!" Yet raven simply stood there and croaked that name once more. "Leave me. Leave me. Leave me be!" Yet still that raven would not flee. It was clear it had no urge to move from off the floor. And then I heard a gentle tapping, on the door insistent rapping, ‘til I, beside myself, could simply stand no more. And so, I rushed to open it to find a figure dimly lit by sconce, just there, upon the wall beyond the opened door. Then I swear that raven danced and gathered itself into a stance from which it leapt straight to my love from off the office floor. And as I watched with some alarm it landed into waiting arms while never stopping croaking of that name, "Eleanor." "That's not her name." again I said while my beloved, raven fed as through the open window the wind did howl and roar. "There you are, you naughty bird." She spoke in tones I found absurd though it was clear, at last to me, the raven, she adored. "Close the window" spake my dear, "or you"ll catch a chill I fear." and then with bird did turn to leave and pass back through the door. And then I heard, I swear I did, as I went to do as bid, once more that cursed croaking, by the raven, "Eleanor." "That's not her name." I muttered as I then turned round to go. My anger at the raven quite useless I did know as I followed where she traveled, there beyond the door, with raven nestled in the arms of my belovéd, sweet Lenore. I should have latched that window. I should have closed it tight. I should have closed the shutters to keep in all the light. I should have made the latch secure with fastenings by the score and then that vile raven could enter nevermore.
October 7, 2025 at 9:51 PM
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The end By Pat Grieco I had reached the end of myself. I did not know it at the time. I'd never been there before. Always before there was more, more to find, more to explore, more to share, more of me to go around and for me to hunker down in, to settle in against the world and all it carries with it. I didn't recognize it at the time, the end of myself. But when I looked, when I examined it more closely I found that there was nothing left, that all I had, had been given, that all I was, had been shared, and that if I ventured to do so one more time I would be lost, somewhere beyond myself, with no path back to me. And in that moment, in that instant when I realized that I had reached the end, I stared into the abyss to find it staring back at me.
October 2, 2025 at 1:41 PM
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If you give meat to a wolf, you must kill it, otherwise, you have merely taught it where to feed. PG
October 1, 2025 at 2:53 PM
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All or nothing By Pat Grieco There is a kind of immortality in having your words read and mused by those yet unborn. There is a joy in knowing that your words will live long after you are dust. There is hope that you will live in the hearts and minds of those who follow and make your words their own, and pass your thoughts across the generations to help shape the unseen world. There is peace in having written, in having put the words to rest so that others may have their day in thought, speech, and on paper where committed they will stay to be discovered as they lay awaiting one to give them meaning and renewed vitality. There is freedom in writing so, giving no thought to other cares. The words compel and I must follow. They prompt and I must write. They call and I must reach beyond myself to answer 'til an ending comes and all or nothing is revealed.
September 29, 2025 at 4:38 PM
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If you keep your eye on the ball, you'll miss the rest of the game. PG
September 27, 2025 at 1:46 PM
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September 26, 2025 at 4:11 PM
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Winged Victory By Pat Grieco Victory has no face of her own. The ones she bears are fleeting shifting and changing with each moment in time. She champions no one, extends no aid, provides no advantage, and confers no lasting benefit. She may wear one face today and yet another tomorrow. She may bless and curse and which is given only proven when the dust settles, wounds are bound, and true cost revealed. She has no smile. She does not share the joy that others feel when they think they know her, when they believe she has gathered them in her warm embrace even as she leaves them for another, even as she searches for another's face to wear for the nonce. There is no knowing her. You cannot capture her moods. She is inconstant and fickle and will not linger long with those who desire her. You may not possess her. You may only have her company for a short time. Rejoice that she is here. Sing her praises in the moment her wings enfold you. For she may favor another tomorrow.
September 26, 2025 at 4:07 PM
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One does not conquer the desert. One endures it. One survives it and counts oneself lucky to reach the other side PG
September 25, 2025 at 7:43 PM
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Footprints By Pat Grieco I saw footprints in the sand and stopped to take a pause unplanned to find if l could perhaps see the one who was here before me. But there was no one, no one there, leaving me to stand and stare. For I had thought myself alone upon this stretch of sand unknown. Yet prints were there in front of me where I had thought no one could be. Someone, it seems, had come this way to leave these prints behind this day. I found myself with deepest need to follow where these prints might lead. Would they remain distinct and clear or would they simply disappear? I cannot tell, but I must know who here along this sand did go. Did they seek solace by the waves, their mind to ease, their soul to save? What burden did they carry here to leave to wind and sea so near? Why did they come here? Why did I to stand beneath these troubled skies? Perhaps to leave the past behind and search for future yet to find. For somewhere out there, there might be a way for me to yet be free of all I carry where I stand before the footprints in the sand.
September 23, 2025 at 4:46 PM
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She's gotten a bad rap throughout history, through stories and tales, myths and legends, but in the end Cassandra was right... PG
September 22, 2025 at 1:47 PM