People and Feelings
Not knowing / anything, really
The only symptoms that we see Are those expressly chosen for our eyes The diagnosis we arrive at Has been shaded and shaped By clues deliberately dropped there for us And even more by what hasn't been shown So we recommend treatment Not knowing Anything, really Not the nature of the disease Nor its real symptoms We have no hope of finding a cure And we genuinely, fervently believe That we are the enlightened ones
Lucy sat out in the sun
In cold and clear September;
She modeled for us her new life,
I always will remember
The pride she wore upon her face
As she soaked in the rays;
Not knowing pills and Crystal Head
Would soon cut short her days.
The pride of Lucy, young and full
Of beauty and its power;
The sharpened razor blades, so cold,
That hacked to death
The flower
(“The Pride of Lucy” – 12-27-2015)
What matters fame? The world is dumb and vain,
And if you do not see, I can’t explain.
For we live complicated lives, and steal,
And lie to make ourselves look more ideal:
It’s foolishness, a flapping in the wind.
The rich make noise, but then die like the rest;
It can be hard to tell then worst from best,
For all, alike, have secret maladies,
And stand accused by old Diógenes
Of emptiness, and flapping in the wind.
For where now is the king, the financier?
Where’s the conqueror, the privateer?
And how much can the dead afford to spend?
Investing is just one means toward our end.
What matters is a day of honest toil,
And some connection ere the day we pass;
It’s knowing that our lives are like a breeze
That ripples gently o’er the summer grass,
For yes, we are but flapping in
The wind
How this house sits empty,
That was full of people;
She is now like
Someone bereaved
She that was great
In our community
The princess of all palaces
Is now good for nothing
But taxes
beauty, solace, wealth, and fame –
these fight out a lethal game;
greed and envy sanction hate,
rich to poor, or wan to great.
glamour, passion, toil, and lust:
idols turned to ash and dust —
beauty, solace, wealth, and fame:
gain the wind, but lose
your name
Picture credit : Yung Chao Chen
A bumper crop of hubris
Mid acres of conceit,
With honeyed drips of fresh revenge
Upon the tongue so sweet
Then winds blow through the midland;
We wake to find, at dawn,
The bumper crop we bragged upon,
Just like the night,
Is gone
“I’s” unknown,
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
Bygone days,
In rooms for healing,
Pass away:
We know this.
But we just
With our contumely
Carry on,
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
We think
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining
Crust
An echo, an
Enablement,
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to
Discuss
The primitives
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
Of us —“
