One from that other day that I forgot about (even apart from the one that’s staying in my notebook).
distorted in water
poured over the surface of the lake
A grand masterpiece that Picasso might make.
Yet what are they but shadows of complex realities?
It seems to me that distortions we create with such ease;
a smudge of a character, or a streak of personality
can be drawn into sharp relief with mental vitality.
If we were careful artists, seeing the depth of real things
We might not make such a mess judging what each person brings.
Oh, that we might be brilliant, painting people in good light!
Noting flaws, yet seeing immortals, striving to make our lines right.
Reaction to T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
Let me take you on a date-
All the while in a state
of utter desolation and decay.
Oh, lets find some way
to dwell on every unpleasant thought
Every terminal disease ever caught.
Isn’t this fun being frankly morose?
Can I enchant you even further by being verbose?
I hate the world, I have no loves
I’ve killed off all the mourning doves.
See their splattered guts just there?
It’s a metaphor for how much I care.
Let me be droll and use big words
I like my thoughts released in herds.
This poem has dragged on line by line
Meaningless repetition and poor design.
See my merit? See my skill?
Let me expand- no answer? I will.
And on and this torture goes.
Anyone who is intelligent already knows.
And just a random musing:
I’ve written lines of love and hate
Written arguments or just to debate.
But the merit of the written word
Is nothing like the things I’ve seen and heard.
It’s bottling brilliance or feelings or scenes
A worthy endeavor by any means.
The page is a picture, reflecting the age
These days I am busy, but I’m learning slowly how to hand it over to Him so I can walk.