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!
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