Verities, eternal, list of
Think of a line
The first that comes to mind.
OK: music, that's the thing
(The next line ends with 'sing')
Words mean less than looks:
A picture's worth - how many books?
A woman without a man--
I mean, man, how can?
And food. Ah! Music, Food and Love...
(The next line ends with the stars above)
Philosophy is trickier. Still,
Have we or have we not free will?
Thoughtless, I find I am still here.
But never mind; pass another beer.
This began with a random thought,
(From where did it come, I hear you retort)
Synapses saying not a lot,
An electric expression of God Knows What.
So, what's the trigger?
You'd say, 'go figure'.
It's likely we'll never 'figure' an answer out.
The next line ends with - you guessed it, no doubt.
And did someone mention money?
Filthy lucre, bacon and (groan) honey
- Call it what you will,
Nothing beats the dollar bill.
Last of all comes ordure,
Primogenitor of all the impure
Things we consider unfit
(No, I won't say it)
For normal discourse. So
There we have it, from high to low,
From best to worst
But which comes first?
What is the highest power?
Our animality makes us cower
In the face of death, while
Imagination can make us smile,
Or give a haughty laugh
Because we are blessed with a different path
To the brutish beasts
--The ones we dine on at our feasts;
Believing that we live on
As avatars, or in heaven
(Some place I've heard about
But which I gravely doubt
Exists); giving rise
To the least tenable of verities,
(To my Cartesian mind)
I.e. Organised Religion and
Its belief in a life here after
(The next rhyme, appropriately, is laughter)
But let's not talk about destruction
Of belief system construction;
It's a losing game:
What alternative can you name?
The only mystery is time.
Time; and the ability to rhyme
Because, you see, your mind is not here
And that's a very queer
Notion to get your head around.
At least my feet are firmly on the ground,
To which a head usually attaches
To command the feet with nervous dispatches.
To paraphrase Descartes' axiom:
My feet stink; therefore I am.
This conversation's petering out.
Just as well since the meter's out.
So much for veritable sublimities;
Existence is driven to extremities
Of self justification
Because it bears no relation
Nor similarities
To external realities.
How do I know all this?
Sorry, you are asking the wrong person this.
It's just my first pass at grasping a notion
That resulted from some Brownian motion
Of the mind:
It is not in the pip but in the rind.
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On not having a clue
I think I could do great things, if life would allow, but
Life is my impediment.
It's an uncomfortable truth I cannot accommodate because
I cannot spell 'me'.
Untutored in the ways of the world,
I am life's incompetent.
I haven't a clue what I should do;
I haven't a guardian to tell me.
I venture forth with the greatest reluctance; I am
Mired in my own sediment.
Being wary of what the world may hold,
I fear what they might sell me.
If ever they build a statue to incompetence, then
Put me on the pediment;
The words: 'can't do, won't do'
As a motto set in stone below me.
I would like to know the meaning of it all but
Understanding ain't imminent.
The truth may be out there but
There's no one here to tell me.
Perhaps it's not the greatest of mysteries; indeed,
It may be self-evident.
The answer may be before my eyes;
Too bad it's not in me.
In search of the truth, X-file like, I'll seek but
Not find enlightenment.
Call me when the truth is revealed and I'll call you
When I find the real me.
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Four iambs and a trimeter
There's ten around the table tonight
Taking up the topic.
There's one whose nose begins at brow
Without a bridge to stop it.
Another's nose is rather small;
She makes it up below
And so it goes around the room
Noses one and all.
Their noses take the scent of wine,
Which nose is too exotic
But by the meal the scents beguile
And appears the girl erotic.
The conversation goes from wine
To talking of the lamb.
With food and wine the conversation
Tastes of roast iamb.
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We Walked On
a
b
cde
f
g
hijk
l
m
nopq
r
st
uvwx
yz
we
walked
on,
you
and i, and
zed
and
talked of
why
it
feels
that way
when
we
get
to where
we want to go.
the trees
are
tall and
the wind is strong,
so strong so that it seems it
could even bring the trees
down and leave us bare, hidden by
only
the
sky,
with leaves on the wind.
i wonder
then, will you uproot too?
only, unlike a fallen tree, up and go
and just walk away? there’s nowhere to go i
cannot see; no where to hide i cannot be.
but if you leave, all i will have left are your leaves.
a lone willow will i be
and stay by
the river to
weep for thee,
a~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~fig
tree. you
march on air
roots and
let me be.
but if we are both
like trees, then stay and stand
here with me and the earth and air we will
bind while we bask in the sun and shade the
ground. we will stand united, a pair of trees
standing together against the breeze
and the rain cannot bring
the two
of us
to the
ground beneath our wild and windswept canopies.
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