"Autumn in Padded Beige"
Wrongfully writing of
This leaf changing
Season currently
Without knowing or for
Yes for no reason for
Four walls my eyes
Only seize on site of
What sight sees
Completely
Confounded
In confined
Solitary
Betwixt the vibrant threads of a busy bazaar,
A foreigner's gaze seize on a singular star,
A boy with one eye, an enigma raid,
Their dialogue begins, a journey to trade.
"Your salesmanship shines," the foreigner inquires,
"Does schooling attend you? Or familial fires?"
Orphaned and lone, no kin he admires,
The boy's tale unravel, as ambition inspires.
"English, how come its in your tongue?" the foreigner probes,
Through travelers' tales, the boy's knowledge thorough on globe.
In the loom of life, where destiny robes,
Their discourse unfurls, where curiosity lobs.
But the foreigner, intrigued by a deeper array,
Asks of the boy, his eye's fate's ray.
"Taken away," the boy voice like a squall,
No pity sought, nor tears to enthrall.
"Would you wish for new eye?" the foreigner's quest,
To gaze upon wonders, life's behest,
Boy apprise "I'd rather dwell in darkness, at rest,"
Than with one eye, bear life's test.
Silence ensues, the foreigner's heart sways,
By the boy's resolve, in life's maze,
A cashmere carpet purchased, in a daze,
Their encounter profound, in bazaar's craze.
care and
craft
poet trees...
that leave
words
to seize-on...
thoughts that
flower and fruit
any time of the year...
stans sand
Take and breathe fire
Seize on your desire
Kill the person
Unleash the dragon
Poor ol’ Pyrrho, he’s the hero
Of my somber poetry:
Couldn’t figure how to pick your
Core beliefs with certainty.
Bold Descartes, he got the party
Started with his Cogito.
Up popped Pyrrho (what a zero!),
Said to think is not to know.
Next, John Locke, he tried his luck; he
Claimed true knowledge must appear
By consensus of the senses,
But just how, he wasn’t clear.
David Hume, an ornery human,
Stripped Sir Science of support.
Just one reason he could seize on:
Custom is our sheer resort.
Kant, the strange one, said, now hang on;
For what’s really real don’t fuss:
Be content to just consent to
What our minds make real to us.
Lastly, Hegel scored a bagel
With his dialectic ways:
Synthesizing’s just surmising
When you have no solid base.
Oh, bewail their learned failure
To make absolutely sure
Of the theories man can fear he’s
Welcomed with a false allure!
As for poor ol’ Pyrrho’s moral,
Which I think we should applaud:
Don’t be blurtin’ that you’re certain—
You are just a man, not God.
There is a bubbling spring, deep below the edge of my mind.
Dark, with glistening waters that are yet blurred,
And indistinct.
I watch it, with some interest, to see what comes forth,
As I am ignorant until words appear. They flood forth,
Ripe, pregnant with meaning (though sometimes, only
I can see what relevance to my life...or yours...
they might possess).
And always I wonder, whence cometh this fountain of words?
And I have no answer (though I blame my Mother…and perhaps my Dad).
Yet others seize on this and egg me on, and I do…I write…and
Wonder, whither it comes and is it me…and what does it all mean?
Allow those sunrays
Bypass through the lenses
Compose up my window
Buffing
Agree to those blends
Seize on to my grip
And let my sun
Grant me my limelight
Smiling, blurring
Sojourn!
Don’t swathe my sanity
My guide
My warmth
The exquisite
My Love
You shall by no means
Recoil beyond the pillows
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