Untitled: a common measure quintet
If there is method in this madness
by which I compose,
there ought to be at least one moment
when that sense is shown.
That’s not the case; when words
come out, they oft betray
no common ground with sanity,
but are a madman’s play.
Perhaps that is the goal:
to purge with flowing pen
the ink-stained fingers of the soul
so they can write again.
It seems unlikely though, I fear,
for these words rarely seem to cease;
were their intent to cleanse and clear,
at some point I’d expect decrease.
But still they come, just as they please,
in different forms and varied measures,
as hurricanes or gentle breezes,
half-cast clods of clay, or treasures.
10 APR 2004
by stanza: common measure, short measure, short hymnal measure, long measure, long hymnal measure
04.9.04
Ananda: a colgyrnach
The question that I have is this:
If ignorance is such great bliss,
then why are we sad,
dwelling on the bad
in a mad state of pissed?
It seems to me we are confusing
bliss with something we are using
that’s in small supply
or is hard to buy,
that you try not losing.
But bliss is not in forgetting;
It is in knowing and letting
go of each desire,
to cease to require,
quench the fire that’s upsetting.
Each of us seeks this kind of peace,
but our reason bids us to cease
and busy our days
with productive ways;
When souls play, they find ease.
09 APR 2004
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