On The Loss Of Beauty

Not Alone

There's someone sleeping in the house,

So I'm not alone.

And I am free to pace the floors

Around the cats and think.

He put music on. It's playing.

I see shadows on the walls

In the twilight. They are sad,

But not lugubrious.

A quiet and contented grief,

Til I remember why I'm sad.

This is empty. This is hollow.

I am only not alone.

11-17-13

 

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

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

 

Integrity

The law does not exempt the sick

Nor succor the disabled.

The land of god has doctors who

Get rich. And can be purchased.

Vent your soul in poesy.

Integrity is rare.

Sick or well, the bully wins,

Believing he is right.

Heaven is for everyone

And no one goes to hell.

Everyone is good. And earth's

The final destination.

11-17-13

 

A Picture On A Place Mat In Denny's

A castle on a mountain in the rain,

A moon behind the clouds above the sea,

All of it surrounded by the darkness,

(And thunder) are the soul of poetry.

11-18-13

The Forum Discussion

They must believe there's genius

In every soul that breathes,

Great art, a pencil and a pad,

And think there is a god,

Or else the worthy poetasters

Couldn't spell their dreams,

Or plan eternal futures,

Or vaunt their poetry.

11-18-13

On The Loss Of Beauty

Opinions are like a-hs.

Everybody has one.

But he who writes a symphony

Is higher than the gods,

Who just created Man,

But not the music.

When a poet grows into

Adult maturity,

All he knows is what he thinks.

Animals imagine.

11-18-13

 

Jokes

Humor! And I breathe again,

Consider there will be tomorrow,

Angry friends will smile at me.

Release the ballast! Let my heart

Soar above the sea.

Love returns. And happiness,

And optimism too.

11-19-13