ThePoetsProgress's Xanga

Monday, September 12, 2005

Mon, 12 Sep 2005 16:48:35 GMT

The Jelly on the Wall

Whence it came, no one knew, but we knew it was there;

At first it attracted a shout or a stare,

But soon it had lost all its novelty small

And the jelly is still on the wall.

We could see it each day, but each day noticed less,

Thinking somebody, sometime would clean up the mess,

Yet still it remains, and we care not at all

That the jelly is still on the wall.

It could have been easily wiped with a sponge,

But, by apathy gripped, we could not take the plunge;

Sadly, all that we did was to wait and to stall

While the jelly was still on the wall.

So the world goes on with its toil and care,

Caring naught for that small purple glob clinging there;

And the masses hark not to humanity’s call,

And the jelly is still on the wall.

Monday, September 05, 2005

Mon, 05 Sep 2005 14:07:40 GMT

Labor Day

What can the labor of this brow

Unto itself endow?

The hope of idealistic praise

And idle days?

Disgust arises as we beat it down.

Cynical smile from a heart of gold:

Which is reality?

It cannot be alone in what we see,

Yet, O my soul, be bold

And rise to win yourself some great renown.

If there were aught

That I could say that I have got

When all my light is spent,

Despite the reaching of the black

I’d know no slack,

And I should cease from struggle and be thus content.

Saturday, September 03, 2005

Sat, 03 Sep 2005 10:40:28 GMT

Song of the Castaway

Since I saw him last year, much time has passed –

Ten thousand hours or more –

And yet he’s as sweet as when first we met,

And he makes me smile as of yore.

The year I’ve spent on this dusty isle

I’ve known anger, and madness, and fear;

But I’ve never seen half such a welcome face

As the face that I see in the mirror.

My home here was wild, if I call it home,

Which I don’t (as of course you will find) –

This speck of sand in a simmering sea,

Made not for the soul but the mind;

A world where the bravest of men would fear

To set out and go at it alone,

And I might not be bravest, but sure I’m a fool,

And I guess I have reaped what I’ve sown.

One time, I confess, in a puddle I saw

A face stained with sunshine and tears,

But it wasn’t my face, oh no, it was not,

For the souls of mankind are my mirrors.

What’s that? To find yourself? Listen, my friend:

Yourself by yourself is quite numb,

And if I had understood what I know now,

I reckon I wouldn’t have come.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Tue, 30 Aug 2005 08:37:55 GMT

A Joy that Once I Knew

One day, having walked with princes and lost my virtue,

I stood above them all, and pranced and shouted

And made myself a giant; thus I lost

My common touch. Oh yes, they still applauded,

And it wasn’t merely a polite ovation

(Some folks put their hearts into it) – and yet

Applause is like a kind of drug, I guess:

It’s grand, to start with, but you need more and more

To stay on top of the world, and so your lust

Makes you do things that make you despise yourself.

Applause without self-consciousness – now that’s a joy

That once I knew and now vainly seek to find.

I stride back to my seat, and a cell phone

Goes off somewhere... somewhere off in the crowd.

I reach for mine, and I set it to vibrate.

Is this that joy they call the fear of man?

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Thu, 25 Aug 2005 12:54:04 GMT

Ai Miglior Fabbri

Midway in our life's journey I found my way
Out of the woods, and who did I meet there
But Virgil, and Dante, and Milton, and Robert Frost.