The Path of the Poet

The author's appology: At times the ever-present, stifling oppresion of the success of the material world, presses in. And in some sense, even I must respond with force and violence. This explains (I hope) the nature of this piece.... The path of the poet is not the path of the scholar. Nor of the General. To say that I have wasted by life, to say that I have wasted even a moment of my existence on idle speculations, to say that the same period of time -- which is to say, my life -- Could have been spent building the Brooklyn Bridge (which I rather like) --or-- that the same wasted days -- which are the days that I wasted besotted with self pitty -- could have been spent re-vising symphony after BeethOvanic symphony, To say that all of the sleepless nights (such as this one) were muse would not let me sleep, could have better been spent working out the Missouri Compromise... To say that all of this "fiddle faddle" could have been used to forumulate the Gluon/Hadrion theory of Q.E.D. To say that all of my totally in-coherent mumblings and persiflage, could have more profitably been spent erecting profit and enterprise. Yes, to even say that the time wasted scribbling down these curls and squiggles on a piece of paper might have been better spent trying to convince those "others" [ie, politicians, scientists, the lay public ] that we should become a space-fairing world -- that, "our future is in space".... Why, it's all true of course! (well, duh?)
A slim glimmering of hope, Polly's sliding down slippery slope. All schemings best laid plans yield only uncertain dead lock. -- Nov 13, 2000, 3:16am
As I stand above the beauty of the land, looking down from domain. Eagles' The rolling soft, hills, gently covered with autumn's pallet. ANd slight swatches of snow crept along as if skirting on mountain's baseboards. And herds of animals running and then pausing at water's edge. And a mountain range slowly softened to now appear a round-lopped hill-ock a-brush with the trees filled with twittering wood-peckers. And slowly winding its way through the forest, the road my car takes -- it's driver only seeing a destination at hand, and not a view a loft.
Word, words, words -- flow the mind, over tumble-weeded sylables and spelling jutting out like harsh gritt upon soft teeth. Phrase lost by a moment's hesitations. Until all that remains are mere mediocre phrases, disolving into a blank page....
Oh reach for the stars -- reach and becom with sigh-filled hearts become more than petty politicians bickering over personal agendas. Reach! Find! DIscover! Be mindful of the future, or befall its plans.
Red-mon-ton, Reading, Redding, Re-done, Re-dunn, Re-doone. Really, now is that a poem???!
When I was very small, I planted a bean in a jar to watch it grow. A science experiment for the the very small. And when I saw a froggy jumping in a pond. Little did I know what it would mean to the old man that I have become.
Spend time with yuour children. And if you have none (children or time), then, quite become the philosopher and create tales of happiness and woe. But be more of the happy than the sad -- for the world sorely needs a laugh or two. Sing songs and write a-new. Plast caster onto forms to sculpt hardened mush that becomes soft, wet clay. Speak prsises and seek truth, and say nice things. For the world needs see-er's and say-er's too. Listen and teach and cry for all a world's woes. And point only the good -- for there's many who if only through indifference prefer their own selfish ways to the greater good. So, speak up at least once against injustice, that is not mere greed disguised as caring. For our world needs saints whoul may be sinners, more than it ever has need of the righteous. So flow the words, and phrases, Do what you can do -- but always think that you too may only so little -- that you will not be too harsh amd quick to judge and take. For our worlds need gifts and not poison.
And an old gypsy is reading Chaikovski's Tea Leaves and hears Rodin's Kiss And poet stands in the empty field.
Oh, where was I before I began? And where will I be after I am no more? Preachers say of the ending but know nothing of the beginning. And many a politician, lawyer, and guard tell me to "watch it bub!". But, they too disolve into white. And darkness en-vel-op's all: The Grayness of Death. (For indeed it is the gray of the between, neither the darkness nor lightness of life -- without any cares) And then, I rest between lives -- neither here nor there or now nor then. And begin again the arduous taks of explaining life, the universe, everything (and 42), to those materialists who have NO TIME FOR the silli-ness only by which one can understand the universe. So, Before I was, I was not. But now (briefly) I am. And then I will not, be. Ever again. (or not)
Muses phading, words slipping, return to sleep oh poet Until thousand years's time calls you once again needs: Be! Back to the poetry page Return to the m-a-c page Return to the HOME page

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