can see clearly now ...
i dare not write
a cloud at night
I sit and ponder long;
All things I dare not write
And so to you belong.
I sit and ponder long,
Perchance to dream instead;
And so to you belong,
The thoughts here in my head.
Perchance to dream instead,
When what is real is gone;
The thoughts here in my head
Which can be known by none.
When what is real is gone,
Fictions must soon reign;
Which can be known by none,
Truth brings on such pain.
Fictions must soon reign,
Hidden meanings thrive;
Truth brings on such pain,
Concealed so I survive.
Hidden meanings thrive
Buried within my verse;
Concealed so I survive
What could be much worse.
Buried within my verse,
Upon a cloud at night;
What could be much worse?
All things I dare not write.
of the Pied Pipers
was so adept, they marched in step,
Rats followed him one by one;
He played his tune, beneath the moon,
Until the job was done.
The deed was good, he knew it would
Make everyone rejoice;
But he felt denied, and then his pride
Made him sing in a different voice.
Now he did lure, the young, the pure,
And on one sunny day;
He piped a song, and right or wrong,
Children followed him away.
This may not be home, in a Browning poem
Yet Pied Pipers play the pipe;
Innocent minds, of many kinds,
Whose hearts and souls are ripe
For friendship's door, which offers more,
And the portals open wide;
Hear songs and rhyme, and in little time,
Theyre invited right inside.
Some get mesmerized, even hypnotized,
Charisma and a listening ear;
Makes losers win, it draws them in,
So they feel security's near.
So just take care, and be aware,
It may all not be heaven-made;
Whether a sonnet, or a Hale Bop Comet,
I warn you, don't drink the Kool Aid.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin by Robert Browning
Heaven's Gate Mass Suicide - Hale Bob Comet
Jimmy Jones and the Jonestown Mass Suicide (using Kool Aid)
what hath made this bard among the rest?
Forsooth, what perfect poems! Away my pen!
Get me to the back seat, there at the end
And shed my tears alas, he is the best!
'Tis not for us to wander in the master's den...
But to marvel at words he doth well frame;
No way we poets 'ere could write the same
Great lines so perfectly, that golden pen.
Reader, I cannot write more, this charade,
Make no mistake, l n'ere would have the ink
That has this genius' words to paper link,
I so admit, no such poems have I made.
Alas, I quit, no more I'll look upon it,
Will, how didth thee ever write those sonnets?
reading "In memory of W.B. Yeats"
by W. H. Auden
Why stand hues, awed in memory shades of voices past?
Should death of pastel poets keep them from their poems ?
Not ashes, but their verses have been gently cast
to small cafes, to classrooms, and to brownstone homes.
Silence invades the suburbs, the reader mournful roams
the streets of raw towns isolating the busy grief.
A few thousand will think their days here were brief,
Yes, their bodies revolted, poets dying bring sorrow;
Wystan, William and I share that eternal belief:
Their works are the import of their noise tomorrow.