Form


Art is arbitrary without form.
Anyone can write it, like the wind.
A spider's web, it snags upon a nail,
Torn to tatters by a hundred breezes.
Art with form is constant, like the Sphinx
And the Parthenon, and it will stand,
Until a poetaster blows it up.
Both of them destroyed by men of war!


6-22-13



Afterlife


Whatever dream they conjure up
The skeptic can unravel.
An amorphous afterlife
Of love where souls commingle -
Souls without identity
Or consciousness of self
That consequently
Never know they're happy.
An eternity of bliss -
Impervious to boredom.
A hell of pain indefinite
And endless – such a god
That wishes that on any fiend
Or wrongs that he has done
Is a god of terror
Impossible to love.


6-22-13


Winning


His cousin, fat and bumptious, loud,
Critical and overbearing,
Told him clearly when he cried,
“I gave you all my money!”
It was the single decent thing
He'd ever done, and like a joker
Trumped the very least demand
That anybody made.
Enraged and hurt, his face aflame,
Completely inarticulate,
He spat a glob in front of her
And bolted through the door.
Undisturbed she calmly said,
“Now he'll write a vicious poem
Declaring his maltreatment.  And
No one will ever publish it.
And he won't be back.”
Winning is a temporary,
Artificial joy,
A pleasure that some people never have.


6-22-13