Without Rhyme or Reason
There are those who would tell you that
poetry doth stink;
but I happen to like it
for it helps me to think.
The lives of those
who cannot rhyme
on this world are
a waste of time.
Poetry is very special to me;
the outside world it helps me to see.
Describing people either famous or non-,
or the way one feels at the setting sun;
the memoirs of a long-lost love
with warmth that envelops us all like a glove;
the swarthing anger that is unleashed
when anger flows out and turns man into beast;
and then there are those about the triumph of good,
stories whose endings are well-understood;
numerous still about flowers, moms, battles,
midsummer rains, or cowboys in saddles,
the seasons of winter, spring, summer, and fall,
and some of them really mean nothing at all.
So when you are bored, just start up a rhyme,
and soon you'll discover it's well worth the time.
November 1989
Life's Grandeur
Better to be a pneumatic drill,
than to kill an insect.
For are we not, in a sense,
ourselves insects?
We go about in our own little world,
our only will to survive and reproduce;
living our own lives and not caring about anyone else;
and then plucked from our very lives,
often prematurely and before our times;
never accomplishing much;
and we pass onto the next level,
and the cycle repeats itself endlessly;
having no beginning, it shall have no ending,
continuing throughout time until
we become part of time itself.
November 1989
Contemplating Life on the Path to its Meaning
God screwed up when He gave us all minds;
it's a problem that's plagued us since the beginning of time.
It started when Eve removed the fruit from the vine,
and it's doomed all our lives; theirs, yours, and mine.
He was doing okay right from the start;
He did the right thing and gave us our Heart.
But Reason was ultimately the poison-tipped dart,
dividing the whole into unequal parts.
I'm sorry if this poem is starting to bore,
but it can't be denied that Knowledge starts wars.
I've uncovered the pestilence, right down to the core;
a hole throught the Heart that our grand Knowledge tore.
Reason has filled all our lives with hate;
if we could think with our Hearts, now that would be great.
It's most definitely inarguable; there no room for debate,
our Emotion-controlled lives would all be first-rate.
And we would not kill others over foods that we ate,
the color of skin, or who they now date.
Giving us Minds was a cruel twist of fate,
barring our entry to the Pearly Gates.
I hope and I pray that it's not too late.
November 1989
The Problem
AWAY! AWAY!
Why do you stay?
You're not wanted here,
yet still you draw near,
ignoring all that I say.
REFRAIN! REFRAIN!
I'm always detained!
There's much in my soul,
it's not just a hole;
I'm afraid of what it contains.
ALONE! ALONE!
I don't like your tone.
Can't say what I feel,
but my heart is not steel.
This apathy I cannot condone.
CARE! CARE!
The solution is there.
We must understand,
we're in the same band;
of others we must be aware.
August 1990
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