Lakeside Pondering

[The following poem was also published on my philosophy website/blog]

Whither this sport-utility realism,

This preparing-to-be-there,

Amid reticence and lassitude,

Against a child’s fortitude?

Is this not sheer resolution?

And where do these preparations end?

However duty-bound they be,

Does this road lead

Where they might be free?

“Nonsense”

Behold these delights:

A fox running in the snow

And geese taking flight,

Some snapping as they go.

Yes, and would the dog really like

To chase them on the lake,

Just as the wind appears to do,

Sweeping up and creating a swell?

Ah, and the wind imparts a thrill,

So fresh as it enlivens anew,

We breathe, and then let go.

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Green Apples in Winter

Green Apples in Winter
“They’re best when sautéed with cinnamon and butter.”
But the scent that first fluttered the air,

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Green Apples by Gem


A sweet spring, a green blossom,
Was winsome youth,
And love so fair,
In truth.

Immature Reflection on “Great” Art (After Reading Duchamp)

Boring Critic:
“Does this novelty have sufficient escape velocity
To rise above the gravity of the past?”
Plans were made for a futuristic city
Time was counted beyond its seeming last.
Dung Heap:
This question was not properly framed at all.
Time is but the trajectory of chaotic messiness:
This, surely, is a lovely mess;
That, the future of the last “Crane-and-Waterfall.”
Pervert:
“Great” art is such a flop after all…
Esthete:
Your part, the whole, the sparrow, a blind mole:
Why, yesterday I saw beauty (as beauty) in a rice bowl.

Fountain
Fountain – by Marcel Duchamp. Photograph by Felix Clay.

Sunset On a Day Off

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As eyeing tomorrow looks past today,

It seems best to let these shadows have their play:

Tomorrow will come. For now, that sweetens the hour,

In time as the bitter exerts its power.

And as each season does, in time, unfold,

Each one compresses fast whatever it holds.

And as Minerva’s owl spreads its wings,

It flies, nonetheless, in the sunlight of dreams.

Lovers

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To Michelangelo Antonioni

A dog, breathing the moon, breathed in the night,

And a hungry bird, looking askance, took flight.

This happened in a field of tall, sparse grass,

Yellow, green, and wavy like the overpass,

Below which small rodents burrowed their homes

In the soft, humid, and root entangled loam.

You were among them, in the natural night,

Which curved and arced, and flourished in a street light,

That seemed to punctuate its solitude

Searching, ever dim, air ever-renewed.

You turned to ask, in the cold electric fire,

“When, Romeo, will nature tune thy lyre?”