Flow #3 2000/Dec/10


Cold passion's heart deep, searching, never finding. Brash crowds satisfied with watery mediocrity. Art, Music, the Play's the thing. Into true passions and ideas we pour our hopes and drames and more. Never satisfied -- we seek. Never finding -- despondent. But. Never giving up. For sacred songs, friends true and thoughtful. The heart sees what is essential and in love found, we are at last content.
Flip, flip, flip go the dice of chance. Whose fate we are -- is all a game. Token tossed into the air, And Murphy laughing at the arrogance of kings. Whisk, whisk, swish the artist creates only the true vision of beauty. The master can only wait for it to be done, the cockrell crowing laughs at plans yet un-done -- failed by the sages vision, ignored by kings seeking only final victory. And nightly, an aging scribe pours page upon page describing in wondrous detail, turtles swimming muddily rather than even a sentence for some forgotten despot. And the poet with lute sings of Friar Tuck and Good Sir Robin. Their nemisis long since forgotten. And turtltes muddily slip them selves into backwoods ponds as silent moon beams light their nightly journey -- they care not who is king. And children chase fire flies as old men sit and sip cold drinks -- women beckoning them to dance. And the bells ring mid-night and the night's just begun. A lone king sits quietly afraid of enemy's plans. An old poet sleeps early, as frogs quietly, slip to and fro. And silent moon beams waken tavern owners to close for the night. And the people dance until dawn. And little froggies sleep on the shore, hidden from the morning sun. Quiet flows the dawn, quiet flows the dawn.
Soft a pillow onder my head, sleeping, turning, toss in my bed. Crumbs a-scratching at last I a-rise ! Shake them out, shake 'em out ! To sleep at last, 'ere sun-rise.
You push the little button: IN The ball rolls down lights blink, bells ring clink-clink-clink clunk! Another game lost.
Aces high, trumps low, Some money pushed too far, Gambler's high, debter's woe. 'Tis the same game -- life you know. Our hopes pinned on some distant star, A pass time good, an obession quite too bizare. So, hold your monney and save it now. And some day, you'll own a cow or at least a calf or two. Otherwise the gambler's gobblin's got will be you.
I wrote a word or one or two, and tried to rhyme them -- for I know how much it means to you. But, passions well spent welled up inside me: They flow forth with venom and hate for all the hatred and greed -- and all those that never sing a song or even try. And measure everything in it's dollars and its cents. So, I rhyme them now and then -- and accept the total lack of content save sound alone. Back to the POETRY page To the MUSE's poetry page Back to the m-a-c page Return to the HOME page

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