On Myself

Pain

He is paid to care. He doesn't.

No one else does either.

When you're ill

They'll leave you on the ice.

Everyone's an infant.

There's no universal mother.

The universe is empty

And the sea is deep and cold.

Any man can stand not being loved.

2-4-14

 

On Myself

See the fool instruct us all

On nature, life and love.

Ridiculous! Who never had a friend -

Although when he was young

Some people tried.

Now he's writing poetry -

Thank god he has a talent! -

Poetry a loser writes

To alienate the world.

Wishing to be published he

Does little to effect

That endeavor.

But he has a friend,

Maybe two.

But this is not success.

See the fool? You heard him say it -

This is not success.

And if he dies at 96 -

Famous or entombed -

It will end a very stupid life.

2-5-14

Pleasure In Art

Life is death with pleasure

Totally dismissed.

When art's devoid of happiness,

It ceases to exist.

Artists list to sinking. From the

Cemetery rose one.

Opera was beautiful

When someone could compose one.

Money, pain and talent!

Only one of these I've known.

With a troubled mind, it's a

Relief to be alone.

2-4-14

 

Disillusion

Most poetry is terrible -

No magic and no charm -

Keats, Millay and Brooke and Poe

Are beautiful to read.

Others like another poet -

What is their intent?

Poetry that has no purpose

But the use of words.

What is art that it should go

Like sewage to the sea?
And suffocate the fishes, only

No one wants to read.

2-4-14