Tag Archives: futility

Some Sense of Meaning: ballade

The world is what it is, the pundits claim;
and City Hall no pugilists defeat.
No matter where you go, things stay the same;
you either like your bourbon iced, or neat.
A thing is in itself almost complete;
just unifying theory holds it back,
a brave philosophy in which to beat
some sense of meaning when they feel its lack.

The picture is designed to fit the frame;
and even honest men practice deceit.
No matter how its critics might defame,
life runs along, wash, rinse, and then repeat.
As even excess sugar loses sweet,
so kindness turns to malice on the rack;
and gives to those who think best on their feet
some sense of meaning when they feel its lack.

The clever find someone to take the blame:
a scapegoat they will not most likely meet,
some part of their brave psyche soaked in shame –
the heart perhaps – and never miss a beat,
while fools still strive to enter and compete
in one more pointless lap around the track.
Like sheep, they seek for answers, as they bleat,
some sense of meaning when they feel its lack.

The world is what it is, wholly complete;
Each moment marches on, not to come back.
Men write philosophy to give blank sheets
some sense of meaning when they feel its lack.

13 JAN 2017

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Only Dream: alcaics

I cannot seek for infinite solutions,
spend endless hours harboring discussion,
just lurking in some thoughtful quagmire,
patiently awaiting final judgment.

How vain to think such artifice delivers
a useful purpose, meaningful salvation,
the precious jewel for reason’s scepter
dispensing revelation to the worthy.

What truth is there in this pointless anointing,
in crowning jesters, mindlessly applauding
like shameless harlots begging mercy,
expecting infinite and wise response?

The single answer, brilliantly revealing
a blinding beacon that dispels the darkness
is just a simple childlike wishing.
Redemption? Absolution? Only dreaming.

06 JAN 2017

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Ode to Joy

Joy doesn’t “find” you;
good fortune won’t light
like bluebirds of happiness
on your slumped shoulders.

Joy doesn’t come up
like flowers in a garden,
some sudden epiphany
before your eyes.

Joy doesn’t “find” you;
it happens, on purpose,
the moment you seek it
in something you are.

Joy, much like happiness,
self, and fulfillment,
aren’t simply out there
like lottery picks.

Joy doesn’t “find” you.
You “find” it – by looking,
by acting according
to what you would be.

Joy doesn’t “find” you.
It does no good hoping,
unless you start moving
beyond listless dreams.

04 JAN 2017

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Like Nothing

There’s no thing quite like Nothing;
and so much of it around.
It fills the nooks and crannies
and absorbs the smallest sounds,
obsessed with taking over
and with being something more.
It wants to be the ocean’s deep,
the shallows, and the shore.

There is no thing like Nothing;
how can anything compare?
It’s hard to feel superior
to something not quite there,
that whispers from the shadows,
or drops such subtle hints
that seem to come from nowhere
in our own experience.

There’s nothing beyond Nothing,
except in let’s pretend.
No yesterday, tomorrow,
or up just around the bend;
yet we would cast in concrete
or immortalize in stone,
build monuments to Nothing
just to decorate our homes.

There’s no thing quite like Nothing –
and yet most of us believe
in some illusion we imagine
out there to achieve;
and once it is completed,
this vast Nothing, great and wide,
what will be left for us to do?
More Nothing, ’til we die.

06 DEC 2016

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The Dominant Species

It isn’t like I hate the human race
(as if it were a contest to be won)
or seek out disagreement in each face
that dares to criticize or jest in fun
at my idealistic, mad ideas:
responsibility in the world that is;
some equal share of benefit and blame;
reduction in all sentimental tripe;
belief that no omniscient power rules.

It isn’t like all people make me sick,
just those who seem to think and talk upright
but are more like a crawling slime,
not human save for their malignant shells.
I am not anti-social nor withdrawn.
It is not fear that keeps me to myself,
but weariness from scraping at facades
that makes me prefer animals to men.

5 DEC 2016

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Amerigeddon

There is no need to stop the clocks,
nor try to dim the constant noise;
let those who listen, soldier on,
despite the sonic din’s abuse.

There are no hidden codes to find,
nor secret doors along the wall;
let those who look, persist in vain
while their illusions peel and rust.

There is no gathering of tribes,
nor universal dream to come;
let those who would awake, sleep on.
The morning will come soon enough.

There is no right, there is no wrong,
nor side that always ends face up;
let those who would place bets dream on,
beyond the realm of win or lose.

There is no stirring battle cry,
nor mourning wail to soothe the dead;
let those who sing learn different tunes
in some more pleasing universe.

04 AUG 2014

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A Toast to Anacreon

Come, pour me a glass of that wonderful stuff
that once is begun is not ever enough;
and under whose influence we learn to bluff,
imagining ourselves immortal and tough.

Come, pour me a round of ambrosial brew
and join me in raising a glassful or two.
For soon comes the morning, when payment comes due,
with bitter bright sunlight that pierces the dew.

Come, pour me a quick one as I seek the door!
My limit’s approaching, I can stand no more.
Yes, the pounding of my blood is building to roar;
soon, my only comfort will be the cold floor.

Come, pour me a drink! One is never enough!
While the wine is flowing, it’s wonderful stuff
that gives to us courage, all bluster and rough,
to watch as our dreams turn to mere dust and fluff.

11 APR 2014

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