Passing thoughts
passing us by
into
the nothingness of nothing,
the nothing of nothingness;
the wherefore of whys,
the whys of wherefore;
the noise of silence,
the silence of noise;
the emptiness of empty,
the empty of emptiness;
the traveller knocking at the door,
waiting,
waiting,
waiting
to begin writing without
the assurance that you will
finish what now two lines
ago you started,
leaves this writer in an ever
deepening philosophical quandry;
what if the words don’t
make it to the end
of the poem?
what if I run out of them
just as I’m beginning to
put this together in some
kind of coherent poetic fashion?
perhaps Heisenberg’s dictum
might help explain matters:
but i doubt it
and you should too;
for poems are meant
to be as they are
and always have been;
adventures.
The agony of Summer
that follows the
disappointments of Spring:
The shrouds of Winter
left from Autumn’s repose,
the tearing sounds of ennui
shredding days that we so
carelessly let slip from our grasp;
A malevolent bleakness
rides with abandon
out of the West,
blowing out one by one,
candles we’d lit
in futile acknowledgement
of the unknown;
Silent accusations reverberate
across a fading horizon,
dwindling into the subservience
of the Night;
Songs bereft of melody
words robbed of meaning
pictures without colours
hung on walls
desperately searching for
their missing subjects;
Galleries ghosted with absences,
clock-faces hidden behind masks;
Genius in all its intensity
slaughtered by enfilades of indifference,
Hope left dangling on the gallows
creaking slow and slower still
in the mordant breeze of infamy;
and of the something
we do not discuss.
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