Best Philosopher Poems
*Based on Plato's Allegory of the Cave
Numb fists with bloody wrists
chained to crumbling walls.
Glazed eyes that never spy
a single truth or fault.
Dim light impairing sight
in spaces dark and shallow.
Stone walls where lies are scrawled
by murky phantom shadows.
One breaks free on frail knees
stiffened by disuse,
to leave behind the dumb and blind
who welcome this abuse.
He climbs in pain against the grain
toward a distant light.
With bloodied hands, he finally stands,
exhausting all his might.
Dazed at first, he's cursed by thirst
beneath the blazing sky.
The sun is bright and plunders sight
from eyes too dry to cry.
Lesions crust as eyes adjust
to find a foreign land
with greenest grass and sea like glass
caressing strips of sand.
He stands amazed before this maze
of truths he's never seen
and vows to save those in the cave
whose ignorance demeans.
When he returns, his words are spurned
by those chained to the wall.
They have no will to brave that hill
or risk the chance to fall.
He cannot go back to this show
of living shadowed lies.
Now that he knows the truth below,
he needs the open skies.
And so he climbs to search, to find
the knowledge that he craves.
No more a slave to the dark cave.
He's left that mindless grave.
I listen calmly to him
Slowly nudging him on
As he expounds on philosophy
Hidden gems are revealed
Polished and inspected
This one owns a gold mine
This one has hidden gems
I love to see them exposed
That's why am silently probing
In a dark corner of the library,
the young philosopher deeply thinks,
adding to the tapestry
of ancient minds that thought but failed to solve
the puzzles of reality.
But as his careful mind reflects,
in silence with the smell of books,
his soul is startled by the sound
of cooing doves beyond the dusty walls,
and he must stop to listen.
He saw the noble beast collapse in blood and dirt,
Lashed by the owner’s cruel and ruthless crop
He rushed to cradle its head upon his stained coat,
And wept with sorrow that choked his broken heart.
He shared the pain of the majestic steed,
He cursed the world, its deceits, and all its sin.
He knew the truth was far beyond his reach,
He felt his faith, belief & reason crumble within.
For wasn’t he / the voice of the unfathomed deep -
Questioning / God and all ancient morality.
Dreaming / of will, and power, and ecstasy, -
Sparking / and de-catechizing minds / with originality.
But in that moment he was just a simple man
Who loved a lamb more than his Übermensch.
Who gave up his mind for one last act of sanity
Who became a mythical hero despite his Mensch.
The sacrificial lamb with a final breath doth whisper -
...“”Dionysus, The Crucified” - I am…your Zarathustra””
I am a philosopher
Of great mental acumen
I like to blow my own trumpet
As nobody seems to mention
While enlightening people
Of all hues, I think not twice
Morning to noon and noon to night
I love when people seek advice
Questions myriad on one's
life, future, and future wife
If their foreseen future is bad
Will better halves manage their life
Questions keep getting sillier
Till they get nonsensical
My thoughts are philosophical
But my answers turn whimsical
I love work, people love me
Results don't count, it's a game
All goes well the credit is mine
Nothing goes well, they get the blame
It's late gotta close my shop
Need food and a good night's sleep
'Morrow will be a busy day
So expect not I will come cheap
POET AND PHILOSOPHER
Political propaganda versus debate with ideology manifestations of today brings forth a new species of political expressions boldfaced.
The hoopla indoctrinates the brain of contenders stating their game.
The panels are in place as a nation of people listen-in to the visionary scope of Politicians.
Political figures desiring the top seat that gives him or her leadership for four years.
Never to be any more prolific then the prose they speak.
But oh, a new generation is in appearance - a new species of political culture.
A poet and a philosopher latitude.
Room for maneuvering dogma that inculcates a greater focus and a better way.
The envoi proselytizes.
A verse and flow of figurative literature platforms.
An allegorical formation shown that henceforth a stronger political forum.
Thus, today informs an eminent tomorrow.
A poet and philosopher typeface the state of a nation time sequentially.
Where eternity is seen.
That is of the United States of America longevity.
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Written March 17, 2016!
An old cowpoke throwed his leg over the well-worn saddle horn,
And tilted back his ten-gallon hat that was sweat-stained and worn.
From his shirt pocket he took a Bull Durham tobacco pouch,
And with one hand made a roll-yer-own - at that he was no slouch!
"Son", he drawled, "I'd be much obliged if'n you'd lend me yer ears,
Whilst my hoss old Dan an' me take a break frum brandin' them steers.
You see, I've spent nigh on fifty years ropin' dogies an' fixin' fences,
Ridin' ever' day in rain, snow an' dust over these wild expanses!"
"I ain't never gonna git rich workin' fer fifty bucks a month an' chuck,
But I'm a helluva lot happier than them city fellers a-chasin' th' buck!
They jes' sits at their desks starin' at a computer screen ever' day.
I gits to see them mountains ever' day yonder across th' way!"
"Cowboyin' is hard an' dirty work an' I shore ain't in it fer th' pay!
I live in a rustic bunkhouse with six other fellers when I hits th' hay!
Durin' lightnin' an' thunderstorms I've had to calm th' restless herd,
An' I've drove 'em through ragin' blizzards 'til my eyes wuz blurred!"
"Well, I reckon I'd better git back to work a-fore th' boss gits on my back.
He's a purty square shooter but don't cut me a great deal uv slack!"
With that the weathered cowpoke said, "Giddy up!", gave the reins a jerk,
And the old cowboy and his faithful hoss Dan trotted back to work!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 1 in Tirzah Conway's "A Cowboy Is" Contest - March 2011
“I think, therefore I'm glam!”
wrote Rene Descartes—with his
too beautiful mind.
the real name of a hero
that never dies
That mist that always
goes up even in day light
redeems them of the curse
the blessing,the hate and contradiction
that her forefathers' name carries
we sit around the eminent fire
that toxicated her with wisdom
that she she dished to us from
the calabash she held underhand
she sits,graceful with the twinkle
on those beautiful,rich brown
ebony eyes that showed the liveness in her
as the story of her life
walked out of her mouth
feminenly rolling her tongue
she elegantly holds high her head
as her radiant face
emits that urge that makes
one read within the wrinkles
of her well curved face
Those lines,tell a tale of their own
yearning for you to
trace a finger along them
so they can insipate in you
all there is to drawing every breath
and letting it go
she gave birth to the wonderfull earth and
all that walks down the trees
into the woods down across Babylon
into Canan
Words rubbed across her tongue
with ease and made me appreciate
this very woman
my mother was born to
and many other who walks this soil barefoot
She being the same flesh
as my mother,your mother
our mother,yet she utters
shadows that feeds many...
The Green Poet, Red Seven, and The
Brown
Philosopher
is the poetic names and aka's for Keith
Edward Baucum I am no longer The Poetic
Philosopher
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
The Brown Philosopher, The Green Poet,
and Red Seven are the poetics name of
Keith Edward Baucum
Greek Philosopher Anaximander proposed that
all life began in the sea.Allah"made from water
every living thing"And We created from water
every living thing.Darwin did not know genetics.
He also did not know about genetic mutation.
Humans and monkeys are both primates But
humans are not descended from monkeys or
any other primate living today.Humans and
chimps share a surprising 98.8 percent of their
DNA.How can we be so similar and yet so different?
Here is your answer in Surah Baqarah verse 66.
You are already aware of those of you who broke
the Sabbath.We said to them,“Be disgraced apes!”
Ape species include,gorillas,chimpanzees,orangutans,
gibbons,and bonobos.The source from which existing
things derive their existence is also that to which they
return at their destruction.
I am a Prestigious Professor of Philosophy,
At a quite Elite University.
I get generous grants,
To sit on my pants,
And write books that nobody reads.
Bunny died today, gender never sure,
as she lived, dignity, grace, no surprise,
Two days food uneaten, left as it were.
A private decision not to arise.
Ten years, ancient for a bunny, she lived
with us presiding over our gardens.
Although now blind, he had willingly served
as philosopher, aware of all goings
on, leaving comments in the compost bin,
the real heart of the garden and will be
for years. She often basked in the noon sun
with his old acquaintance, the cat, Ripley.
The moments I shared with him, I revere.
The knowledge she passed to me, I treasure.
(In the opera “La Bohème”, four impoverished students
share a Paris apartment. Rodolfo falls in love with Mimi,
a seamstress who is dying of tuberculosis. With money
at an all-time low, Rodolfo’s friend, the philosopher
Colline, decides he must pawn his overcoat in order to
buy medicine for Mimi. In this aria (“Vecchia Zimarra”),
he takes leave of his dearly-loved garment.)
Listen to me, old friend
of sixteen years, and counting:
it's you who must ascend
- alone - the sacred mountain,
while I stay on the plain.
You know you have my thanks:
whether we'll meet again,
triumphant in the ranks
of the righteous, I don't know.
You never bent your back
to any rich man, though
we often felt the lack
of life-sustaining sous.
These pockets, gaping, worn,
have borne their fill of booze
when we caroused till dawn.
Poets and thinking men
found shelter from the storm
in here. I don't know when
you failed to keep me warm.
Our hands abrade and age
the very book they cherish:
it's time to turn the page,
for even love must perish.
Farewell, you care-worn sleeves,
buttons, I know by heart.
And see, your master grieves,
for now the teardrops start.