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  • mistermuse 5:40 pm on May 18, 2010 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: death,   

    MORE THAN THREE MORE POEMS 

    THE LAST HOUSE ON MEMORY LANE

    The dearly departed may linger
    on in the dwelling places of
    their loved ones, but even the
    deceased are at the mercy of time
    as loved ones in turn move on,
    forwarding addresses expire and
    memories become dead letters.
    But pity only the living, dying
    to be remembered for more than
    15 minutes as they wonder about
    the meaning of it all….
    even if only in a poem.

    LEAVING SOMETHING TO BE DESIRED

    If I were to cross my heart
    and confess at the outset that
    this poem is devoid of insight
    other than what you may happen
    or choose to make of it and
    if I assert no attempt to excuse
    such impoverishment by falling
    back on the likes of less is more
    what are the odds that you
    will nonetheless not fail to stay
    to the hopefully better end?

    LET NO MAN WRONG MY EPITAPH

    Here, for good, lies Chastity Wood,
    Her casket wood, sin’s snares withstood.
    The wood without, laid without flaw;
    The Wood within, men never saw.

    BE LITTLED

    When we win it’s with small things,
    and the triumph itself makes us small.
    — Rainer Maria Rilke

    Just so.
    I win.

     
  • mistermuse 6:45 pm on January 6, 2010 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: death, , ,   

    RETURN OF THE POET 

    ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

    Man is learning all his life and yet he dies in ignorance.
    –Yugoslav proverb

    Most of us never get it.
    It’s not as if we run out of time.
    Methuselah could’ve lived a million years
    and not aged more than a babe in the woods.
    You know what they say about not knowing what
    you don’t know? The problem for the rest of is
    that we know all too well what we don’t know….
    and, what we will never know. Without knowledge,
    what do you substitute for certainty?
    To believe or not to believe, that is the quest.
    Your truth or my truth?
    Testimony or evidence?
    God or no God?
    Creative lust or transcendent purpose?
    Death after life or life after death?
    The answer, my friend, is growin’ in the womb
    as if due to emerge, but remains forever pregnant.

     
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