A better artist you’ll be/Without reality/If you change into truth/In a telephone booth/And shut your eyes to see
Never pentacostic/Not even acrostic/Life’s as much sense/As a butterfly fence/And that’s why I’m an agnostic
I see you’ve been getting hell/“What a loser!’ they yell/Ignore the booing –/If it’s not worth doing/It’s worth not doing well
Cats fight, I’ve found/The fury much renowned/Fur will fly/Makes me wonder why/There are so many kittens around
In living day to day/Some wisdom comes my way/Like (I concede)/If at first you don’t succeed/Give up skydiving, I say
****
Seasonal and Outdoorsy
Starting with that late-winter restlessness, and moving on to mountain biking.
Outside, winter proceeds/The birds are into the seeds/And I keep a beer/Cold, and near/We’re fulfilling their personal needs
Water, from rooftops, flow!/Melt, you grungy old snow!/I prefer my bicycle/To the prettiest icicle:/It’s been a fine winter, but – go!
Water, from rooftops, flow!/Melt, you grungy old snow!/I prefer my bicycle/To the prettiest icicle:/It’s been a fine winter, but – go!
Twiddle-dee-dee/Water breaks free/I say, heart-felt/That an early melt/Is more than alright with me.
Ivory hills of snow/Turn to water, I know/Well, I’ll remember the white/Some summer night/By the campfire’s glow
Old photos and beer, that beats a/View out the window that greets a/Guy getting cheer/From a two-four of beer/And another big slice of a pizza.
Water’s movement seems/To hold the season’s streams/And in the rain/I learn again/The seaward flow of dreams
Find the gear, find the pace/Avoid trees, find space/Forgetting trouble/Intense in my bubble/And a grin all over my face
The troubles of the year/Just disappear/Mist of the morn/One guy reborn/In wheel, pedal, and gear
Immoveable pillars beside/A dirt snake ten inches wide/The trail twists; I grin/Glad to be in/This forest rodeo ride
The drive, the mud, the rain/The slip, the crash, the pain/I get up, then/Start again/Someone around here’s insane!
****
The Arts
Cruelly real, or abstract/Not always rife with tact/Poetry grows/Like a rose/Finding in imagery, fact
Away the orchestra floats/The audience puts on their coats/Do they know, of the art/The largest part/Was found between the lines?
Art’s an interest, you say/Something you’re doing today?/If in doubt /Stay out/Art’s not a thing, it’s a way!
The quality of art, you state/Is a matter of debate/No! Any art/Is always part/Of a revolt against Man’s fate
Half of music’s no more than/Whispers from the Great God Pan/Notes are seeds/From his reeds/Loving chaos his only plan
The soul perseveres/Among the café pioneers/The writing numbs/A poem becomes/Trouble, drowned in tears
A poem’s a wizened elf/I drag down from some shelf/I shivers my spine/When I write a line/I don’t understand myself
Poetry’s role, I feel/Is never to conceal/Nor to teach/But make each/Truth more truly real
Call her reality’s sleuth/Poking at the aching tooth/Ember and fire/The poet’s a liar/Who always speaks the truth
Into the canyon, a rose/A poet carefully throws/He publishes a book/Try not to look/The effect’s the same, he knows
Hurt, the poet squeals/Writes, a poem, heals/But all that pain/Is just in vain/Unless the reader, too, feels
I write free verse, and yet/Those words I soon forget/If it don’t rhyme/It’s like I’m/Playing tennis without a net
A poet is seldom swayed/By the money he hasn’t made/The income is low/But, you know/Poets are born, not paid
Remember, when you’re bored/Pen – mightier than sword/So write what’s true/Later, we’ll award you/A posthumous award
An artistic dream you’ve nursed/For its glory you thirst/Please take heed –/Of the things you need/Confidence in nonsense comes first
High-ho good fellow/I want a sound that’s mellow/Not one that’s/Like dying cats/So please put away your cello
Are you sandpapering a cat?/Well, it sounds like that/That cello’s in pain/But then again/I kinds like where it’s at!
I’m kinda getting uster/Strangling my rooster/And getting mellow/Caressing my cello /And you can’t prove I ever abuseder
Timpani’s the sound of God/Stomping earthly sod/Yelling, “What a bummer!/Every drummer/Is more than a little bit odd.”
Sometimes I think in wonder/That timpani’s thunder/Cries “Vandals! Bent/With cruel intent/On pillage, rape, and plunder”
Is timpani’s thunder/From Heaven rent asunder/And a horse, rough-shod/Carrying God/Rolling this whole world under?
An oboe’s the sound of a duck/Whining about her luck/The kids are grown/Her friends are flown/And she’s about to be hit by a truck
Sounding like the brake of a train/And a guy with little to gain/The cry of an oboe/Is an arthritic hobo/Finding shelter from the rain
An oboe’s a little bit gay/(Not meant in a pejorative way)/But be it known/It wants to be blown/Once, at least, today
**** END of BOOK****