| Poems: 210517 - May 21st, 2017 |
|
| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/05/22 14:42 |
210517A
------------
There are many things
that I cannot ever believe,
though I assure you
that they are all quite true.
The sorts of things
that our minds are made up of.
The sorts of things
that sometimes seem like love.
The words I might have said,
that were stripped of meaning.
Everything that was kept secret
that no one ever let me know.
It all looks like something
that it never really was.
It might sound like something
that it never could become.
There is what was explained away
by various logical arguments.
There was whatever was analyzed
in all the ways that change nothing.
Everything repeats the question,
but the answer never comes.
The rain overflows the bucket,
and then it gets emptied out again.
------------------------------------------
210517B
-----------
Everyone is always hunting
but they seldom want what they catch.
A life can become entirely spent
falling into novel traps.
We might have met in the dark,
leaving no traces of recognition.
The moment passed right through
as though it was a bullet.
A glancing blow
struck by the eyes.
Leaving stricken to drift apart
in a sea of perpetually estranged faces.
Most such things have sudden endings
that reiterate as dead on arrival.
There is a coroner filing out reports
as to the habitual causes of death.
There are variously repeated rituals
that get played out that way.
Formalities entered into
as to the usual lists of objections.
Some lives are rubber stamped,
to be filed in alphanumeric memory.
The contents easily revised
whenever it is deemed necessary.
Consultations with strangers
disavow any knowledge.
Some having contrived situations
that they found easiest to forget.
It might have proved interesting
if you had looked like someone.
A lot depends on the impression
that was imprinted on your face.
You feel like you are the prisoner
trying to win a weekend pass.
You tried to hide your confessions
in another torturer's fireplace.
No one wants that type of story,
so you try to make something up.
The truth is the first victim
in all our personally warring lives.
-----------------------------------------
210517C
------------
The uninformed are expected
to make specific decisions
that they know nothing about.
Experts who know even less
will fully advise them
on matters of responsibility.
Long lines of people cue up,
to try to find their lucky number
in the hopes that it might come up.
It is said there are many ways to lose,
but only one way to win,
as to changed into guessing correctly.
Something crawled up and out
of the muddy water by the shore,
in its quest to be identified.
Mathematicians calculating the odds
as to any specific instance of evolution
deriving from any one absolute mystery.
It was once considered possible
to make secret wishes on first stars,
that would actually come true.
That practice now strictly forbidden,
though some still try desperately to win
against the overwhelming odds.
--------------------------------------
210517D
-----------
An entirely thwarted desire to escape
from having sex with people
whom one never really gets to know.
Insignificant others
bound by legal and economic conventions
as if that forms a defence pact.
The idea that one can live that way,
in total isolation for so many years,
routinely functional, with a stranger.
The rumours are probably all true
that pharmacists can dispense pills for that,
as part of behaviour modification programs.
The belief that it is considered more acceptable
to tie up someone else, as tightly as possible,
where there is nothing more in common.
Some people faithfully report
that that is what they consider to be freedom
and refuse to see it any other way.
The cause of those made guilty feelings
as to any deviations toward intimacy
forming the substance of romantic fiction.
The characters in the book
having found something in common
that reality keeps denying the rest of us.
------------------------------------------------
210517E
-----------
We live in a very strange time,
where people can only fantasize
about themselves,
having to play all the possible roles
in their pantomime sketch,
including that of being the audience.
The need to be considered entertaining,
and to be blessed with the pure magic
of being able to engage interest:
in the endless dread of not being
ever invited back,
because no one really liked you.
It stretches many an imagination
to where where comprehension ends
as to how anyone survived the oddness
of being children
in a world of not ever contemplating
everything being bought and sold.
Before the advent of calculations,
and it all being so wholly determined
as to something to offer
in terms of everyone being sold
on someone, something, or other,
according to various tags and labels.
Dangled on the end of a line
is the way that fish get hooked,
when they fail to shake loose,
there are all the bad endings
that are always to be considered
as to where conversations tend to lead.
------------------------------------------------
|
|
|