Best Philosophyold Poems
...inspired by 'A Soldier of the Great War'
by Mark Helprin
The old man stumbles, the young man
swaggers with assurance.
Stars of grace and suns of perfect
promise point to journeys yet uncharted
on their pathways to fulfillment.
The old man dreams of childhood,
cherished memories and golden opportunities.
The young man yearns for sexual expression.
Companions, self-possessed, growing
in respect for their astonishments and fears.
The old man a philosopher,
a master of life's unpredictabilities;
the young man just a neophyte,
the world at his behest.
Together, yet alone, storied travelers
with different versions of the universe.
Vibrant flowers bloom
Across the old mango tree
Teaches a lesson
That youth blossoms from the old
Yet the old are the sweetest
Everyone called him Great
The Kind soaked with pride
He blew his own trumpet
Was he the God’s own child!
His subjects lived in misery
He did not bother for their plight
‘Can’t drink water, drink wine’
He shunted misery out of sight
Darkness never mattered for him
Beautiful women lighted his nights
No opponents to challenge him
He took delight at his might
‘Who is the wisest of you all?’
He made the wise men fight
Rewarded the chosen ones
The rest fled out of sight
The king strode over a desert once
The Sandstorms put him in a bind
Thirst overcomes him, no water at sight
His soldiers flee, left him behind
No drop of water around
The king went wild
Like an oasis, he saw a lone old man
Walking afar, nothing to hide
The Kind appealed to show the way
Promised to give back anything in kind
The old man asked for his kingdom
The angry King made him blind
The old man laughed at him
Ego made the King blind
Rains lashed over his dead body
The soul was back in humankind
On the edge of metropolitan midnight
he lays in a breathless silence
rasping the evanescing yesterdays to his windows
both open and locked,
while the unknowing below in stale smoke barrooms,
wait to sear his wounds and retell his life
in putrefied requiem.
Abashed metropolis
echoing of muted voices once adorning the streets
in practiced synthetic ritual,
the vile awash and seeping through asphalt cracks,
the scent of rot, old and new, smattered on old brick edifices
silences the ascending smoke plumes
belched from and within dirtied concrete towers,
the final endeavor from within a dying mans spirit
reaching out to no one
City’s voice wails from the antechamber in darkness
anxieties fracturing the panes amongst the downtown fire
of urban panic
lucidity congealing away within him, kept only in the moment
by metronome dripped medicine
exposing him to his damp streets, dirtied culverts, sewer ditches
chemically induced and maintained.
Fighting for his identity within this sterilized chaos,
whispering for the few of open mind somewhere below the window sill,
quicky stepping onward, over his newsprint life,
calling out one last time
There he lays in cold white sterility,
calling silently to his windows, both opened and locked,
watching his stories catch and fade in the dull humid streetlight
wisped away on steam grate stale winds,
the dying soul, eyes closed, his aged lined face
muddied, scraped, and walked over,
through the grime of progression left on sullied pavement.
The scents I remember like hand rolled cigars
Wine cask lined cellars in musty cool basements
Chocolate miniatures nestled in bright candy dishes
Tea leaves and mint steeping in dainty china cups.
Baked goods cooling on the kitchen counter
Roast with potatoes in a rich onion broth
Lilacs and roses lined on back yard fences
Channel #5 clings to grandmother’s sweater
Scents I remember from childhood spent
Fondly reminiscing with a wistful smile
In this sterile world I live in now
What will my grandchildren remember?
No leaves burnt on a cold autumn night
No carcinogens cooked over red hot coals
No second hand smoke that will cling to your clothes
No hairspray, no tea roses, no creams or colognes
No Sundays exploring my old Aunt Ruth’s farm
No chickens or guineas; no old dusty barns
No fresh moved hay or cinnamon apple pies
Just germicide, purified, Ionic fresh air.
31.01.2008
The theory of Plato
Even old Plato said
There will be us forever
-
Two halves that make an apple,
Two ropes tied in a knot.
Even old Plato said
We’re meant to be together
-
Two stars from the sky – falling,
Souls always bound by love.
Even old Plato may
Be wrong once in a while,
For even philosophers
Do sometimes make mistakes
But we are still so young,
So let’s believe old Plato
And somewhere deep inside
Let’s hope it’s not the case…
Form:
There is abundance in all our lives,
The trick is simply to open our eyes.
For when you open your eyes to what you have,
Instead to what you have not.
You will find that what you have is a lot.
For we all want, and we want for that something.
In hopes of a feeling that having might bring.
But what about when that feeling is worn.
And the new fancy clothing are old and torn.
When the new truck, becomes old and doesn’t run as good.
When the paint is chipped and there are dents in the hood.
When those new shoes are old and broken down.
When the pretty new dress becomes the tattered gown.
When the new sofa has lost part of it’s stuff.
The new carpet that is stained and lost its fluff.
All things wanted dearly when new.
Want and waste, we are all guilty, me and you.
But when time wears them out, they are discarded to the wayside.
Tossed out, and without a thought carried to the curbside.
Then it is onto the next item for which ever it is we want.
Sitting pretty in a storefront window just to taunt.
In wanting there is no complete satisfaction, only temporary content.
And all too often the value of an object, was not worth what was spent.
It is the theory that the grass is greener on the other side.
And we want because we feel we have been denied.
All too often so many people think the other side of the fence is the only place green
grass will grow.
But I believe my side of the fence is just fine, there is much less grass to mow
Sarah Comstock
4-16-2010
Form:
Towering sycamores shaded the court house on the old town square,
And as usual on summer afternoons, hangers-on were gathered there.
I joined them and sat on a bench with a grizzled old man,
Wearing bib-overalls, John Deere cap, and a leathery tan.
"Son, let me tell you a few things I've learned about livin'.
Firstly, you ain't gonna git far if you ain't carin' an' forgivin'.
An' you ain't gonna weather th' storms uv this turbulent life,
'Less you have a lovin', carin', an' forgivin' wife."
"But this wife things works both ways, you understand.
Treasure her, tell her you love her, an' always offer yer hand.
Instruct yer kids an' grandkids in th' ways of th' Lord,
An' jes' 'cause ever'body does it, steer 'em away frum that horde!"
"I've labored long an' hard for whut little I've got,
Farmin' on a shoe string on a hunderd-acre plot,
Sufferin' hail, flood, th' blight an' many a killin' drought,
But I ain't never asked th' guv'ment fer no free hand-out!"
"My wife an' me skimped an' saved an' put two kids through college.
I fought in th' Great War, an' that'll sure increase yer knowledge!
Even though I've had my share of tribulations durin' my life's long span,
I thank th' good Lord ever' day, for I'm truly a very blessed man!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Traveling the
transcendental highway
early in the morning,
simply an extension
of my daily yoga.
The great semis zip by
in both directions,
like elephants on roller skates
in the first light,
only a flat tire away
from disaster.
Like a zen master I travel
with the knowledge of a thousand days
behind, in front of, around, on the curve
effortlessly, without thought, immersed in thought,
hitting my marks,
Lakeville highway at 5:22,
Highway 37 at 5:37.
One little bead on a tail light chain,
and sometimes other masters from
a thousand trips will be recognized,
and we will travel together for awhile,
safe in the knowledge
that no one will make the mistakes of
the occasional traveler.
On most days, however,
this is a solitary trip,
with body alert and automatic pilot on,
the mind transcends time and space,
and answers to old questions appear,
poetry sprouts from magic synapses,
and many times I have created a world
of only me and you,
and all the things that I should have said
and done,
could have said and done,
are done,
all in the limitless space between
points A and B.
The old Greek had it right. If you touch an
infinitude of points,
you'll never get there.
But I am not that good yet
and still skip a few points,
and at 6:10 the stop light
on Golf Course road
interrupts the transcendental highway,
and a more mundane day begins,
I.
Darkness--utter darkness
Lights
Artificial
(I know the feeling)
Shining like a champion over an enemy
Or rather a enemy which defeats you by losing.
Do I dare pour myself into this?
Do I dare?
Basil Hallward points and stares
His picture has too much of me.
I have lost my reason
Like Don Quixote
Living in a fantasy
Chanting victimae paschalis
I am the great and courageous knight
I myself am the victim.
II.
Deathbed conversion
Like none other.
I awake-- to experience a real resurrection
Death comes to us all; but the mighty
And courageous knight
Defeats that old foe with swords as thin as paper
Lances as long as the brain can unwind
Fantasy-- with legends, saints and miracles-- poison like fever
No-- I am not a great and noble knight
Zarathustra has spoken
Human--utter human
Imperfected beauty found within a shattered glass basket that smells a little like urine
Inter faces et urinam nascimur
It needs to be washed
III.
Who shall I give my kingdom to?
I spent my last twenty dollars on a bottle of booze
Dulcinea enters
A haggard old witch
This isn’t the first time she has shunned me
My fight has just begun
If only I had won
If only I had one
Max Bardus
Form:
Its are church the place of confession were no one cares to listen.
They just gather to wait collecting dust and and spots on there livers.
The poetic fool who's blind to the truth.
And the beaten down and bitter old fighter.
Who missed his chance.
Who's last fight was with a cop who tried to give him a DUI.
Four broken ribs and a lot of booze and years later here he sits.
Shot of old crow and a beer.
He's sat in thta same spot for so many year i belive he's grown onto the
bar stool itself.
That pulling him from it would take a act of God or some old fashioned dynamite
to pry his ass from it.
He's the past and my future staring through me like a ghost.
His horse voice echo's I'll forget more than you'll ever learn still stays
with me to this very day.
The bar it's my refuge from all.
And as long as i have the money I can spend my hours within it's confines.
away from all thoose dellusional pains in the ass that love to tell
whats wrong with you.
Never once looking at themselves or wondering why people part like the red sea to avoid
them.
Cowards and theives and then theres bad people to.
Who sell hope dope.
Belive in this do as i say and you can be as misreble as me.
Where do I sign up.
The bar its the last resort of sanity.
Or at least a place where lifes problems can be fixed with some quarters for the
jukebox a beer and a shot.
You can’t teach old dogs new tricks
why would someone say this to ------------------YOU
it would be nice if it worked but it ----------------CAN’T
old people are too set for to ----------------------TEACH
advice from the young does not sit well with the OLD
they think they are going to the ------------------DOGS
they don’t feel comfortable with anything --------NEW
Especially that which can equate to --------------TRICKS
© Feb 24 2010 Charles Henderson
Through the dark of panting woods the old man comes
Troubled with anxiety ... afraid the axeman had come first
And each shudder of light there, his frail footsteps numbs
For each missing tree for him make expectations worst.
What if I knock at a friends door, and silence comes back
All droopy headed and sad, I'd regret forever this old track!
Each is more than a probable house, it is a living heart
Where Deborah Guzzi, Charma Chircop, Karen O'Leary
Jimmy Goff, Carolyn Devonshire, James Peranteau heart
Held communion with mine, so did Higgins, my country
Man, and Brian Strand, Carol Brown, Raul Moreno all these
I cringe for each time I feel the rusty reap of rapid breeze.
So here I am in worship of what is better than us all, since
Grace and giver must be the same, here I bring prayers
Out of faith that fathom all dept and hold my love convinced
That we are nobler than nameless gatherers and scatterers
Before us again, or equal to some, who shared this dream
Hedged by the certainty that life is more than what it seem
...inspired by 'A Soldier of the Great War'
by Mark Helprin
The old man stumbles,
the young man swaggers with assurance.
Stars of grace and suns of perfect
promise point to journeys yet uncharted
on their pathways to fulfillment.
The old man dreams of childhood,
cherished memories and proven opportunities.
The young man yearns for sexual expression.
Companions, self-possessed, grow
in respect for their astonishments and fears.
The old man a philosopher,
a master of life's unpredictabilities;
the young man just a neophyte,
the world at his behest.
Together, yet alone, storied travelers
with different versions of the universe.
...inspired by 'A Soldier of the Great War'
by Mark Helprin
The old man stumbles, the young man
swaggers with assurance.
Stars of grace and suns of perfect
promise point to journeys yet uncharted
on their pathways to fulfillment.
The old man dreams of childhood,
cherished memories and golden opportunities.
The young man longs for sexual expression!
Companions, self-possessed, growing
in respect for their astonishments and fears.
The old man a philosopher,
a master of life's unpredictabilities;
the young man just a neophyte,
the world at his behest.
Together, yet alone, storied travelers
with different versions of the universe.