Tag Archives: truth

Out of Plumb: a caudate sonnet

When will these foolish notions dissipate
and take their place with dreams, safe in the grave?
How long must I be some grand idea’s slave,
locked in an endless struggle with my fate?
How much of life will pass me by, too late,
while I watch on the shore for bigger waves,
and in the name of revolution, save
myself for just the hope of something great?

How many think it better to abstain,
and by some grand denial, grasp the truth;
their conscience scrubbed so clean it glows,
a life spent in denial, lack and pain?
How much they waste of energy and youth;
and was it worth it? None will ever know.

Ideas come and go;
the truths that seem so evident right now,
next spring, too, will be turned beneath the plow.
Come back in from the bough;
the universe requires no martyrdom,
no sacrifice. It is not out of plumb.

04 DEC 2010

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Crime and Punishment

I would admit a lesser crime
if only it were worth my while;
but in these days when wish makes fact
the simple notoriety
of having lived will sentence me.

There is no justice in the world
when thought alone is quite enough
to stripe a convict without bars,
at least the steel variety,
and clang the door shut on their cage.

What bargain would I strike, besides?
Admit the world is right as rain,
that equal opportunity
exists to knock on every door,
and offers all their dollar’s worth?

What kind of poet would I be,
were that the case? What kind of man,
to live and breathe among such lies?
What shame that such a bold offense
results in nothing but fools’ praise.

I would admit a lesser crime;
but what’s the use? The truth will out,
and I would rather form the noose
from my own actions, my own words,
than feign guilt worth a coward’s mind.

05 AUG 2007

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Damocles

If you would have me write of bliss,
exclaiming art mere artifice,
a simple sham designed to fool
the ignorant who fill our schools
with some vain hope of what might be:
quite useless, a mad symphony
that holds no tune, does not inspire,
I say: I will not be your liar.

I cannot speak except my truth.
To turn the curse of misspent youth
from years of folly into gold,
to cower where I should be bold,
to silent, watch your fabric wind
its cloak of death upon the mind;
these things I cannot, will not do,
and call it art to forgive you.

Unless it strains against the mold
to whisper secrets long thought cold
and buried to the modern soul,
unleashes furies thought controlled,
and births the questions best unasked,
there is no meaning in art’s tasks;
despite its pompous, highbrow claims,
it is a cripple: blind and lame.

What madness you would have me fake
to shield from view such a mistake
may fool the senses for a while
with clever tricks, a knowing smile;
and on such palimpsest you may
suppose to write of one true way
by which the world is formed and doomed:
its genesis, its prime, its tomb,

But know true art will prove you false
and throw odd beats into your waltz,
unloose and snap your well-tuned strings
and turn to rust your well-oiled springs.
And then, what good mere words of bliss
to serve you? I can tell you this:
Art’s sword, that you would make a plow,
is cultivating those seeds now.

03 OCT 2006

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Honest Silence

What is there left to talk about?
The lines have all been drawn,
and leave us little common ground;
not much to dwell upon.

Why squirm in silence here together,
bound by social whim
to say not what is on our minds,
but delicately skim

around the ugly awful truth:
that you and I will not
agree on art or politics,
on legalizing pot,

on why it is that men and women
fulfill different roles,
what constitutes an act of war,
or what makes up the soul.

Excepting those fine topics,
we can speak on what you wish;
although I’m sure in time we’ll find
other taboos to list.

What is there left to talk about?
Why meet here at the fence
pretending that we give a damn?
I’d prefer an honest silence.

08 APR 2006

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Something I Can Feel

This bar’s got a jukebox; for a quarter, you can hear the latest big-time songs;
there’s no need to book live entertainment if all you want is just to sing along.
Yes, I’ll take requests, but not too many; don’t be hurt if your favorite’s not on queue.
I know a lot of numbers, but to tell the honest truth, there’s only certain kinds of songs I’ll do.

It’s gotta be true to who I say I am;
if it’s gonna make anyone listen or give two fifths of a damn;
It’s gotta be straight and speak from the place I know;
if it’s gonna be worth the money that it costs to see the show;
It’s gotta be more than some old line that builds up crowd appeal;
It’s gotta be saying something I can feel.

There’s not much reason for seeing live music if all you want to hear is someone else.
You’re better off just cranking up the jukebox; it sounds much better than I can myself.
Sometimes it’s those old songs not in rotation that touch you, when the band begins to play;
it creates something that’s real, not imitation, and it offers so much more than some DJ.

And if you don’t know what you’re asking
when you ask me to perform
like a chicken on a barbwire stage
who’ll dance when it gets warm,
then it doesn’t really matter what I’m singing anyway.
You just sit back there and listen; I’ll decide what songs to play…

It’s gotta be true to who I say I am;
if it’s gonna make anyone listen or give two fifths of a damn;
It’s gotta be straight and speak from the place I know;
if it’s gonna be worth the money that it costs to see the show;
It’s gotta be more than some old line that builds up crowd appeal;
It’s gotta be saying something I can feel.

‘Cause if it don’t mean nothing to me
then what am I singing for?
There are better ways to get by
than a percent of the door …

It’s gotta be true to who I say I am;
if it’s gonna make anyone listen or give two fifths of a damn;
It’s gotta be straight and speak from the place I know;
if it’s gonna be worth the money that it costs to see the show;
It won’t ever be really good, if it’s not something real.
It’s gotta be saying something I can feel.

19 MAR 2006

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Lend a Hand

for Natalie Maines

They say East is East, and West is West, the two will never meet;
when you see something new coming, cross to your side of the street;
never question why things happen, that’s the way it’s always been;
higher walls make better neighbors: you’ll hear it time and time again.

They say truth is small and finite: you can hold it in your hand;
anyone who tells you different is just selling worthless land;
that the lines are clearly drawn between what’s right and what is wrong,
and you can’t fight City Hall, so you had better play along.

But this life is like an ocean: what I know won’t fill a pail;
and it’s nobody’s fault but mine if I should try and fail
to grow beyond my roots and find my own place in the sun,
seeking truth where it is hidden in each moment’s fleeting run;

and the longer that I travel, seems the less I seem to know;
it’s by facing that uncertainty I learn how to love and grow.
There’s no secret to the universe, no single grain of sand:
you just do your best, and try to lend a hand.

They say everything is set in place, your fate completely sealed;
there’s no bargaining with destiny once you ante for the deal;
never question that the rules ensure that each of us will lose,
simply get to where you’re going, shut your mouth and pay your dues.

They say my way, or the highway, do exactly what you’re told;
don’t look to the horizon, ’til you’re doddering and old;
each of us has got a purpose in someone else’s grand plan,
and it’s not for you to say what makes a man.

But this life is like an ocean: what we know won’t fill a pail;
and it’s nobody’s fault but ours if we should try and fail
to grow beyond our roots and find our own place in the sun,
seeking truth where it is hidden in each moment’s fleeting run;

and the longer that we travel, seems the less we seem to know;
it’s by facing that uncertainty we learn how to love and grow.
There’s no secret to the universe, no single grain of sand:
you just do your best, and try to lend a hand.

14 MAR 2006

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If no one listens

If no one listens what’s the point of lying?
It takes less effort just to speak the truth;
and any action taken worth denying
will more than likely come to little use.

If no ones pays attention for the echo
that new velocity leaves in its wake,
what difference whether dios or diablo
who punishes us for such a small mistake?

If no one watches for the dawn with wonder,
what good another day just like before?
Perhaps we are indeed a cosmic blunder,
just parasites left stranded on this shore.

If no one listens, can the voice of reason
be blamed if it elects to remain mute?
When thinking independently is treason,
who will cry “Fire!” with no one left to shoot?

10 May 2005

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