Flow #3 2000/Dec/10
Dedication
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