Boring

Boring

Only Keats can I read constantly,

Then Millay. Not even Rupert Brooke.

Every year the Man Who Is In Charge

Passes out awards for poetry

To men who have degrees and don't have talent.

All my verse is good but quickly palls,

Swapping magic for accomplishment.

Where's the joy that children seem to feel?

Therein is both poetry and music.

Children! Beasts who scream in restaurants!

4-15-14

Worlds

There are 40 billion habitable

Earth-size planets

Circling in the massive Milky Way.

This is what the Times disclosed today.

Sagan would be happy,

The middle of his dream,

Countless worlds as more than what they seem.

11-5-13

With no progenitors to trust

With no progenitors to trust

And so enforce beliefs

And prejudice and thoughts

That blind and deafen,

My brain is free unbound to think

Whatever can be thought

By a tiny intellect like mine,

Usually occupied

By dated musicals,

Anecdotes and lyrics I remember.

1-14-13

 

His Mother

She beat him and she screamed at him.

At night when he had dreams,

He called to her.

She sat beside his bed.

Now she's in a grave.

He doesn't care.

7-5-13

 

Parents

The soul of my existence

When I am with you

Is not to be my mother

And do what she would do,

To smile when you are happy,

And when you want to play,

Not to be my father

And say what he would say.

6-3-13

 

Morning

The propulsion against sitting close

Can blow away the castle

And keep the ocean in.

But oceans can leak out

In a hundred different guises,

And any castle can be reassembled.

George is back. The ocean is serene.

The castle crumbled gladly when I saw him

Early in the darkness of the morning.

Things can happen. Trains back on their tracks

Clatter warmly through the rest of night.

I see my poems differently.

I don't know why that happened.

They look good, soundly and securely as

They never did before.

Earth is maladjusting.

Republicans announced

They've taken homosexuals as

People with their rights.

Nevada is a brave and splendid

State – perhaps the only one

To cross the finish line.

4-14-14

Fragment

Beauty and form amid

Chaos and crap -

Whitman began it

While Keats was alive.

Poetry's gibberish.

Music is rap.

Artist's get drunk in a dive.

I'm speaking of art.

It applies to the world.