The Need Of Poetry

The Need Of Poetry

A poem is no need,

It comes from need.

When your needs are met,

The stream is dry,

The tap is off,

And poesy is finished.

The Muse departs

And only rags remain,

Fragments of a genius satisfied,

Glutted on the nectar

And the vinegar of life.

10-7-13

“The poor will always be with us.”

• Tim Rice

Those who cannot,

Those who will not

Labor for their supper

Take so little taxes

That the country has enough

To start the latest war on its agenda.

Republicans don't like it

And would close the doors to Welfare,

So those who will not work

Will die instead.

And the sick

Are left upon the ice.

10-7-13

The Wound

He hit him with an open hand

As though to claw his eye out.

He didn't.

But they're going to mess him up,

And if he can, he won't be seen

In town for many years.

Cops are law. And this is justice.

Jesus Christ is mercy.

Understanding?
What if he'd been blinded?
He wasn't yet.

Perhaps he'll try again,

More successful with somebody else.

Somewhere at the origin

Of him there was a seed,

An innocent and pristine seed.

The tree grew bent and twisted.

Psychiatrists are useless,

And get paid the country's debt.

Cops are mean and do not give a damn.

This is life. North side life.

Mercutio lay dying.

All the streets were there when Shakespeare lived.

10-7-13

An Observation

Tenacity will often make a friend,

Occasionally and frequently,

But never every time.

It can become a cauldron

Wherein boils a brew of hate.

Quaff it and tomorrow will not come.

10-7-13

Changes

I feel many changes

In my guts and in my head.

My parents died at 70.

In three years I'll be dead.

My verses once rhapsodic

Lie buried in the hold.

Cotton mush came after.

But now I'm writing gold.

Quick and deep – no music -

Though music was Keats' charm -

And liquid gems from Edna

That glitter with alarm -

I always loved my poems

Secretly inside.

I tripped into the ocean,

And there the passion died.

I never liked my poems -

Abysmal, dismal, grey.

This former mist is lifting,

And drifting, blown away.

10-6-13

 

Subjects For A Poem

I'm write upon the ocean

Til it's visually dry

In poesy's extension of

The vacancy of sky.

Enveloping the moon that floats,

A thick and ebon cloud.

I'm cursed by weekend drunkards,

Table-pounding, laughing, loud.

Will poets rhapsodize the clouds

Until eternity

Ends? Has earth another sphere?

The meeting of close friends.

10-6-13

 

The New Age

Rancid water is washing away

Beautiful music and yesterday,

As factories pollute the bay.

They call them artists and let them sing.

Rotting time has wrought the thing

That made them. And violence is king.

10-6-13