Monthly Archives: January 2017

The Renaissance Myth: bref double

If genius is the thing that saves mankind
by pulling it along above the mud,
and with the rarest spark, inducing flames
to warm against the night the coldest souls,

then why does the world still seem deaf and lame?
Could be, outside that magic, a savant
controls the weak container that is man,
so that true genius rarely breeds in coals;

and Nature, seeking balance, leaves most duds,
to make such genius difficult to find.
So talent tends to weaken other skills
and handicap our saviors in their game.

The renaissance mystique we rarely find;
and by its flaws, most genius comes to nil.

24 JAN 2017

Share This:

She Saved Me: brag

If she don’t know it, it ain’t worth knowing;
all my good ideas, she had when she was still growing;
the movie of my life, she saw the preview showing;
she was up winning my race before I started rowing.

If she ain’t there, there ain’t no sense in going;
she was swimming upstream before the current was flowing;
there was no wind in my sails until she started blowing;
and no light in my darkness before she was glowing.

If she can’t tell it, it ain’t worth hearing;
I was afraid of the dark until she cured my fearing,
and wandered lost in the woods until she made a clearing,
in the middle of nowhere until she was nearing.

If she ain’t it, then there ain’t nothing to it;
until she gave me a chance, you know I just blew it;
I had no good ideas until she said she knew it;
and without her there’s no chance I’d ever get through it.

If she don’t speak, I don’t hear nothing;
until she blesses my cards, the best I’ll do is bluffing;
without her smooth and soft, the best I’ll do is roughing;
’cause I’m an empty shell unless she adds the stuffing.

If she don’t know it, it ain’t worth thinking;
unless she’s clears it up, it’s muddy water I’m drinking;
she’s got the only key to my chains that keep clinking;
if she don’t come onboard, my ship is already sinking.

23 JAN 2017

Share This:

The World Begins: bob and wheel

Today the world begins or ends;
we celebrate both birth and death,
and in between, our lives stretch on
in days and nights all much the same.
Who is to blame?
Some fools would blame the child,
while others seek the cause
among the sick, defiled,
and dying who create our laws.

What is the truth we seek to find?
Some reason that our side is right,
to justify our lust and greed
and bathe ourselves in light.
But what is right?
No system forms its cage,
no moral code defines its bounds.
Not boundless joy nor rage
can claim what is not found.

The world transforms from night to day;
we bask in light or hide in shade.
In neither state do we reflect
a righteous sense of purpose.
Are we then worthless?
What use is thinking so?
While there is breath, take air
and seek out those who throw
their lot with you, out there.

Share This:

Not Those Kind of Blues: blues sonnet

There is no need to holler or to shout,
no need to raise a holler shouting out;
those ain’t the kind of blues I’m talking ‘bout.

The world is in a worry, sure enough,
the world is full of worry, sure enough;
if you don’t like it, man, that there’s just tough.

Ain’t nothing much to say, and less to do,
not all that much to say, nothing to do,
won’t make a difference down at me and you.

Don’t make commotion, sure don’t raise your head,
make no commotion, better bow your head;
might raise it up and find it lopped off, dead.

When darkness lies so heavy near the ground,
sure ain’t the time to think you’ll stick around.

19 JAN 2017

Share This:

On Optimism: blank verse

One can suppose those clouds are silver-lined,
that just around the corner lies great joy,
and what appears today both bleak and sad
tomorrow may turn out to be rainbows.

Let anyone suggest such dandy things
and all the world proclaims them truly mad.
“Come to your senses! Live in the real world!”
those persons full of reason will advise.

Contrariwise, let any sourpuss disagree,
and on their heads is rained derisive scorn.
“How dare you destroy hope, and shun good faith”
that things will work out, somehow, in the end?

Depend on it: you try to spend the buck
that “stops here”, and you’ll be made out a thief;
but ask for change to buy a cup of tea –
you’ll end up parched, and fined for vagrancy.

One can suppose this world an oyster, still;
a shellfish allergy afflicts us, then.
What difference does it matter, joy or pain?
You live a while, perhaps, and then you die.

18 JAN 2017

Share This:

Politisaur: bestiary

It crawls – more like a slither, for its legs
are short and curled beneath its awkward bulk –
and in this ambulation, leaves a trail:
rough scales, small bits of food, and rivulets
of an almost translucent, greasy sweat.

Its mouth is lined with narrow, pointed teeth
inside an almost rubber lipped, wide mouth
that hangs always a little bit ajar
exposing just the tip of a great tongue
in constant motion, keeping those teeth clean.

Its voice is half a bellow, half a cry,
that with torrential drops of fetid bile
hurls insults at both enemy and friend
when it perceives even the smallest slight,
and sounds both most insulted and in pain.

Its attitude, in short, is rude and mean;
yet ’round it gather minions by the score.
They hope to catch the scraps it leaves behind
from tainted prey, or the effluvia
that trickles from its pores both night and day.

It once was something else, and stood upright;
or so the legends say – though few have seen
and lived to tell the tale.

17 JAN 2017

Share This:

A Thing: barzeletta

A thing before the eyes, so crystal clear,
a vision any fool could plainly see:
the fate of any government of men
who choose, not to subdue nor comprehend

the reasons why a thing should come to pass,
or be, thing-in-itself, more than a dream,
perhaps just fancy, winged with gossamer
that looks good in parade, but cannot fly.

The thing our focused energies engage,
what matter that it live on undefined?
A drooling child could scarcely fail to see
that wasting time is all it guarantees.

But something, or just nothing? ‘Tis the rub
that rattles conversations on and on;
and wears great minds from sharpness, down to nub,
until such things are worth the thinking on.

The thing, the magic thing! Oh happy day,
when we may glorify it with a name!
‘Tis such a shame it takes so very long
for any thing worth naming to arrive.

16 JAN 2017

Share This: