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I hate it when the words are numb
like constipation in the bum
or when I really want to come,
but ale.
I hate poetic artifice
that arbitrarily, like this,
says words may flow or spurt or hiss
but hail?
I hate the fact I need to write
and, guilty, stay up half the night
to fight this bloody awful fight,
but fail.
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How loved are we that clutch the shattered glass.
That dare the wrack of nature to address.
Pricked on the shards of tragedy and farce
how loved we are! that bleed to utter, stress:
a man may cry, show wisdom, pity, fear
and honour life, forgiveness know, or pain;
that Woman strength may have - and all - is clear;
most beautiful when most a woman plain.
To sum: if this the World, then we its wife,
who feeds and contradicts the dullard taste
which, lacking wonder, says not of our life:
this diamond is, reality but paste.
The Butterfly a day has, little more,
yet Summer wings and colours it in awe.
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How much of life are we to understand;
can we mine all or do we sift a part?
How many beaches in a grain of sand?
Say what is Love or draw the line in Art.
Then, what is laughter, what does humour show
of our creed and our time, is it only that
we bay at the past when we smile, as though
to enclave evolution in fangs of fat?
What God says it's God? as though God needs bawl
for acceptance of He that is proof of death;
an emptiness measured by Life's recall:
to be Human is but to be Lord of breath.
One thing is sure, this always we could tell;
we no forecall and prob'ly just as well.
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