Being a Better Man

Did you ever think what you’d give up to be a better man, If you somehow could know this was true, That your life was of value, your dreams were a gift, The world a better place because you were born? Even if there were no fame in your lifetime, Your best work forever labeled “author unknown,” Might it still not be worth the sacrifice, whatever the cost Something perhaps you’d be willing to die for? I knew when I started writing this poem that There would be no time for rhyme and meter here, This poem is about emotion, not structure, And time spent looking for balance would be wasted. The pretense of a T. S. Eliot is like pumping earth’s air To Mars so that we do not have to smell The insubstantial vapors of his English chamber pot, Or freeze dry it’s contents to avoid the stench, Who needs to plumb his depths when we have “Ex-Lax.” But make no mistake there are works worth dying for, Music that can melt a poet’s heart and mine, My life, at least, I would willingly give just to even just save Mahler’s 9th for future generations of dreamers, Let alone the honor of being its author. Perhaps such gifts will survive even man’s existence When porpoise culture at last gives the planet purpose, Sound carries very well under water. Or let me join Steppenwolf in wailing at the moon, Hearing God’s thoughts in the space between words In a play offered by the Magic Theatre, Although I think that I will let Nietzsche build his home On the slopes of Vesuvius without me. Still it would be such a thrill to think that I had Touched anyone like such visionary’s have touched me. Yes, there is music and verse to die for if you have ears to hear, And love that makes life worth living, love that has no axe to grind, Love that lovingly accepts love where it grows like a naked lady Gracing a forest trail. Love with no thought Of possessing Love’s transient beauty, God’s gift to man. And beautiful stories that will be sung till Men’s voices all drown in the shadow of Noah’s ark, Quenched like burning steel in the Holy Water of Maker’s song, Till the fire next time, blank verse like mine recycled for its pulp. And true merit seen in the innocent questions a child asks God, Knowing that his Father will always love him, always answer, Angels faithfully recording their conversations for later study. Now that is something to aspire to. Brian Johnston October 18, 2015