Busting Loose

A Dilemma

Were I conservative, then I would pray

For the death of the man in Detroit.

As a conservative, since she was black,

I wouldn't care that she's dead.

11-18-13

 

Tomorrow

Not only doesn't everybody have

A talent, everybody thinks he has.

The heart deceives.

A black man crucified.

And beauty is a fiction of the soul.

Tomorrow comes eternally. Tomorrow.

There'll always be a sun. Somewhere a star

Will light a world. Tomorrow always comes

Though life to see and welcome it is gone.

Not only what he says but how he says it.

They seldom have a what, nor have a how.

Heifetz – like a god – has ceased to be.

11-18-13

 

Busting Loose

A rotted man who isn't dead!

All the books I loved and read

Populated days and nights

With thoughts and feelings and delights.

Standing on a new plateau,

Looking forward, not below,

Glancing back at the debris

Not salvaged by my poesy.

Something sweet or sweetly said!

A rotted man who is not dead!

Write sufficient poems

And enough sonatas, you

Will pretty soon be good at what you do.

So the myth Lamarckian

For the futile common man.

Am I dying? Just a goat?

I write the best I ever wrote.

11-18-13

 

The Myth

They have god and vanity,

And I a myth of poetry.

In Denny's with a pad and pen,

To satisfy an ancient yen,

I sit and write throughout the night,

And know I won't be young again.

I am sad. But life is good.

Termites in a brain of wood.

For all that's said – a great amount -

Phrases are the things that count.

Quatrains and couplets by the sea!

No one can write poetry.

It is the aim of lesser men

Who know they will not live again.

This mythic art does not exist!

An ocean covered by a mist.

11-18-13

My name is Joseph Hart.  And if you like my poems, the are on both Amazon and Kindle (cheap) under Joseph Hart Poetry.