Tag Archives: hope

See Here Now: forensic poetry

“See here,” one poet said, “for beauty’s sake,
I would enslave a thousand listless men,
and though it cause the earth’s deep core to shake,
would carve away the mountains with my pen
that one and all might see as noble truth
a majesty against which swords will fail:
the pure and simple honesty of youth
that conquers all despite seeming so frail.”

“Indeed,” a second poet made reply,
“You might, with that great monumental deed
achieve what heretofore has stayed undone
despite a seeming overwhelming need;
and with a mighty geyser spewing ink
lay waste to man’s vast petty enterprise
that with its many graveyards gives a stink
that leaches into both loved and despised.”

“No matter,” the first poet’s quick retort,
“What form that beauty takes, this much is known:
the fool who finds the chasing merely sport
will find at length, no beauty of their own.
And furthermore, despite the world’s distain,
true love may still play conqueror at last:
what else, pray tell, could lure a world in pain
to soldier on after the die is cast?”

“A vanity,” the other bard rejoins,
“the hope that without fact is false belief,
a wish that mankind’s reason would purloin,
and leave them no real succor or relief.
See here: what good is thinking something so,
if absent evidence, none prove it true?
Youth grows to age, and those who think they know
turn into drooling fools like me and you.”

“But poetry,” the first said in return,
“Is no mere fancy pushed out on the breath;
and though its fire may scald, rather than burn,
its soothing balm may also ward off death.
What harm in that? The world is hard enough
without depriving mankind of some salve
to bind its wounds and smooth away the rough,
the bitter dregs it is our lot to have.”

“Besides, everyone knows the world is pain;
we need no more reminding, everyday,
that loss is the finale of each gain
despite the heavy price there is to pay.
What good is sad complaining about fate,
or moaning on the future’s downward path?
Enjoy the moment, ’til it is too late.
While you still can, find some reason to laugh.”

20 MAR 2017

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Walk Out: englyn proest gadwynog

I’m so tired of all this:
the endless sense of hopeless;
the evil creeping like mist;
the feeling ever helpless.

Walk out into the sunshine!
Find anything that’s divine:
some thing we share, yours and mine.
Look past its flaws in design,

find a world worth redeeming!
Seek what is, not the seeming:
beneath the gray – the gleaming.
Wake up! Stop death’s slow scheming.

14 MAR 2017

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Lines from Our Epitaph: chant royal

’Tis morning, for the cock at dawn has crowed;
and in the bustle of the waking day
each wipes away the sleep and takes their load
from where it slept – and moves along their way.
Some burdens may seem lighter than the rest,
mere trifles, more akin to happiness
than heavy sacks of lead, that like regret
retard our steps to what’s not happened yet,
and on that journey teach us not to laugh.
Each morning thus compels us to forget
when we erased lines from our epitaph.

’Tis midday, for the luncheon horn does blow;
we clamor at our labor’s too brief stay
to gossip cursed luck and need to know,
then guess what waits thru the rest of the day.
In blind and muted prophecy, the jest
of some wild, mad extravagance suggests
of universes far beyond us yet;
eternity, with lies, makes us forget
the vanity of hope, prayer of our past,
the time before this toil, and work, and sweat,
when we erased lines from our epitaph.

’Tis twilight, for the sun is falling low;
we wander aimless home at break of day
and with the last of energy’s brave glow
lay down our burdens to escape the fray.
For some, the pause is the part they love best:
the proof of having passed some trying test.
While others, in the dull and sticky sweat,
self-medicate to soothe plaguing regret
that their grim lives just slip away so fast,
still filled with what were dreams not happened yet
when we erased lines from our epitaph.

And now the sun at last is finally set,
its golden hours replaced by hues of jet
with just a few pale lanterns on the path,
to hint at what had not quite happened yet
when we erased lines from our epitaph.

7 FEB 2017

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Hope and Despair

How fleet of foot is dream-spun Hope;
and how Despair, her lead-shoed sister,
trips a clumsy way to fill her place!

How fair and rosy Hope’s sweet cheeks;
and how their bloom is lost to mind
as glum Despair’s sad visage fills our eyes.

How fickle, that our foolish minds
oft mark these twins we woo unequals
as we come and go through life’s wide rooms.

How quick to judge, and hurt from judgment,
paint another’s Hope, Despair;
gloat to see another’s sorrow.

How fleet of foot is our sweet Hope;
across the room, her doorway shadow
hides in double dark, Despair.

How soon the tables turn eternal –
spin, reflecting like a mirror;
Hope and Despair mere phantasms.

How we dance, by Hope enamored;
hounded by Despair, we crawl.
Constant changes make life’s music.

24 JAN 2017

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Don’t You Cry: a chanson

Don’t you cry, if there ain’t no happy ending.
Don’t ask why, if it’s on truth that you’re depending.
Sometimes it seems it’s just time wasted if you dream;
but keeping on dreaming, just the same.

Don’t you cry; the sun will come up tomorrow.
I wouldn’t lie; there’s more to life than sorrow.
Sometimes it feels like there’s no point in your appeal;
but keep your hand in the game.

Don’t you cry; the world won’t always hurt you.
You decide: what you need won’t desert you.
Sometimes, I know, it’s hard to just let go;
but you don’t need someone to blame.

Don’t you cry; the darkness won’t last forever.
If you try, you’ll make it a little better.
Sometimes just one can’t get it done,
but keep going just the same.

17 DEC 2010

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I Love the Way: a blank verse

I love the way the world unfolds at times:
in sudden spurts of random energy
that interrupt a boring, same old day;
and with a moment’s notice, nothing more,
release some new unknown into the mix.

I love the way that life unwinds, sometimes:
like careful knotted segments on a string
you foolishly attempt untangling;
a few short tugs is often all you get
of easy work suggesting at success.

I love the way that trust releases hope:
like an old rusty key you thought was lost
to the great treasure room inside your heart;
it squeezes past the slowly creaking door
and with a gentle hand, turns on the light.

16 NOV 2010

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Let Vain Cassandras Moan

Let vain Cassandras from their pulpits moan,
decrying what velocity the world
has chosen for its obvious descent;
and in their sermons, demonize each day
that dares to start as sunrise shattered dark.

They make the Word a flesh that only rots,
its destiny disease and graying bones;
and would deny what lies beneath such text:
a corpse that with its dying, brings new life.

Let these harangues of fire and brimstone fail;
they seek to reap by fear what love has sown,
and would for glory’s sake destroy the world
to prove their theories worthy of what gods
they cast in their own image of despair.

I will not preach the ending of the earth,
nor advocate an abstinence so strict.
Instead, I seek to understand myself;
and feed another’s body when I go.

14 APR 2007

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