Our slick answers and clever antics give us away
We are nothing we thought we were
Not as tall
Not as fast
Not as smart
So we find all the right props
To recreate the story we wish we were a part of
And all that we hoped and all that we dreamed
Is erected into a mirage
An illusion of greatness, the great novel of human history
That never was, and never will be
5 comments:
yes
that's some great poetry
Dear Craig,
What's with the angst? Where's the Waco's great! I have a pet dog and he jumps when I come home. I came to find my cat had....on my pillow! I have such days myself. Your poem reminded me of one of Robert Service's poems. One of my favorites.
"My Masterpiece"
It's slim and trip and bound in blue;
Its leaves are crips and edged wth gold;
its words are simple, stalwart too;
Its thoughts are tender, wise and bold.
Its pages scintillate with wit;
Its pathos clutches at my throat;
Oh, how I love each line of it!
That Little Book I Never Wrote
In dreams I see it praised and prized
By all from plowman unto peer;
It's pencil marked and memorized,
Its' loaned (and not returned, I feear)
Its worn and torn and travel tossed,
And even dusky natives quote
That classic that the world has lost,
The Little Book I never Wrote.
Poor Ghost! For homes you've failed to cheer,
For grieving hearts uncomforted,
Don't haunt me now...Alas! I fear
The fire of Inspiration's dead.
A humdrum way I go tonight,
From all I hope and dreamed remote:
Too late... a better man must write
That Little Book I never wrote.
Luke,
I actually had no angst in writing that poem. I guess I should have written more. I think there is liberation in knowing this life isn't what you dreamed it would be. It frees you to live to the utmost of what it can be.
Oh, and happy late birthday!
Craig,
Back at you! Happy belated birthday. Blessings, Luke
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