“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label last words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label last words. Show all posts
Saturday, January 19, 2019
Mumbled the old man
We will never,
in our entire lives
forward lived
be listened to
like when we are
babies
and have nothing to say
that makes any sense
or adds up to experience
as in process
other than
the audible reaction
we have come
to refine.
And still, the old go unnoticed,
after all they have witnessed
in further thought
one should not ignore
repetition
because it looks the same
and never is
and sounds like complaint
but never was.
We predict
the firefighter from the fawn,
timid in the forest at first,
naturally, he will adapt.
We guess and check
and still seem not to heed
the final words
as they were said
carelessly,
as if it were possible
like alternate endings.
Artwork by Leonardo da Vinci, c. 1513, Old Man with Water studies in Public Domain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...