Ominous

Gertrude Stein

Gertrude Stein said, “Pussy,

Don't do me like this.” Plaintive

Appeal was in her voice

And sorrow in her eyes,

That I did not see.

Was her lover rigid,

Incalcitrant, unyielding?

Or was this a passing moment

In a universe of time?

12-11-13

 

Confession

A little man means nothing

Sitting in a room,

Listening to “Camelot”

In winter evening's gloom,

Such important thoughts

In his head accrue.

Wishing he had someone

To tell his thinking to.

To let the music play.

Fortune is a bluff.

To put his thoughts in verse

Isn't quite enough.

Perhaps someone will read it,

And wish to fill the lack,

But he is in the grave

And can not answer back.

12-11-13

Ominous

Art is dead and won't come back.

In a hundred years

The earth will have so many billion

People, none will care.

Tiny brains and limber fingers

Think they write a poem.

Those without a trace of talent

Write a symphony.

Cats will love. The ones that truant

Schoolboys do not drown.

And people still believe in gods,

Cops and the marines.

Everybody is amazed

At modern art so clever,

Formless, free and natural,

Not like a living man.

I don't care for Shakespeare, Keats,

Millay or Vincent Peale,

And in a hundred years from now,

No one else will either.

12-12-13