I never think my thoughts deep thoughts --
though I'm no Peter Sellers, they are
but common trite reactions. l do not live
an examined philosophic life; nor have I
focused, fathomed understanding.
But -- there is, everywhere, wide-eyed blank confusion --
crowds that do not listen, do not hear, cannot ken --
that do not choose even NOT to grasp
what is shown, or read, said, or written.
While reveling in company that towers
oh! so high in intellectual singularity --
such myriad dazzling talents! -- alas! I
am only still another erstwhile
Chauncey Gardiner.
Envoi: Where are (perhaps in hiding?)
our popular current Feynmans -- Sagans --
Hawkings -- even Einsteins? Now I will --
I must ! -- ask: think YOU that ignorance
might NOT be bliss?
Categories:
hawkings, 12th grade, confusion, culture,
Form: Free verse
Yesterday I found a worm in my apple.
Well, half a worm.
C’mon life, take the gloves off.
You’re better than that.
I like to think we’re still friends, though.
Well, at least there are no hard feelings on my part.
I don’t need blindness to open my eyes.
I never believed you need disadvantage or
disability to achieve enlightenment.
Stephen Hawkings got nuthin' on me.
Except, maybe a degree or two.
And some gills.
My feet still make that squishy, splashing sound,
at the beach, by the sea of poetry,
where I find myself.
So what if my fingers and toes are
without webbing,
So what if I still breathe air.
I will one day swim
with the Octopi and Mermaids.
I will one day rise to get my air.
This is the promise God made to me
the day I was born.
Categories:
hawkings, growth, poets,
Form: Free verse
(in memory of Albert Einstein, born on a March 14, and in memory of Steven Hawkings, died this morning March 14, 2018, and in honor of my brother.) A poem,prose, or proverb, if done correctly is like, and may in fact be a type of mathematical equation or proof itself, in many ways. Wisdom is mathematical or might be.
Categories:
hawkings, adventure, africa, angel, appreciation,
Form: Cowboy Poetry
I have studied and I’ve got my last degree
My heart has learned its lessons one by one.
I’m a graduate of the grief academy
I didn’t know how painful it would be
When a man you love is here and then is gone
I’ve been studied and I got the third degree
The tears I wept could wash out the Dead Sea
Remove the salt and scour the shore till done
I’m a graduate of the grief academy
I know now I must die,we cannot flee
We turn to dust and that is not much fun
I have studied and I’ve got my last degree
It’s no News, nothing for the BBC
Unless you’re Stephen Hawkings, that great man
We’re graduates of the grief academy
We can’t control life with a self made plan
God is gone though prayer might well begin
I have suffered till I got a new degree
I’m a graduate of the grief academy
Categories:
hawkings, absence, angst, anxiety, humor,
Form: Villanelle
His body sat there, in its chair, unmoved,
but for the whims of those who care an hour
or so, until the time clock sets them free,
yet he has left them long ago, his stare
misleading lesser travelers
who stand in elevators and in trains and are
quite unaware of their imprisonment
in other chairs less mobile, but much more
confining to the mind.
It is a question, truly, who may claim
to pity whom, and where the markers are
along the way; of when the watchers are
the watched, of how ideas play upon
the screens before or just behind their eyes.
And do we patronize a liberty
we may not know? Are there true, wondrous lands
to which the tiny particles within
alone may go? The Steven Hawkings of
the universe depart at will aboard
these spirit ships, invisible in port,
and then upon returning will report
the finding of an India that we
had never seen, or never ever dreamed.
~
Categories:
hawkings, tribute, may, universe,
Form: Free verse
Writing I weave my world in fabric time
From words that fleshed bubbled eternity
Something like catharsis pen my rhyme
Without devotion to success or flattery
The bubble is a cage, a transparent glass
The veil that shows and conceals reality
I write until the sound through it will pass
And light forever wears its distinct virginity
And every syllable of her being spells my lines
And at the period she is done, and I extinct
Wave upon wave merged in undilated confines
For Einstein and Hawkings this faith is succint.
Categories:
hawkings, life, philosophy,
Form: Verse