Originally posted by graphicfunk:
Hey Robert: First, I love your screen name, Bear music. I like your photography and I also like when you place yourself on a limb to present an image. I do this too. I do believe that we have more in common than not.
Now, my last excursion: In the beginning mankinds first concern is survival. Once evolution takes its toll, societies are born. These societies give birth to idle time. Here, forgetting the past, the human begins to enter a mental expansion. There is a propensity to codify, record and collect information. That promordial existence is now replaced with certain comforts. It is from here that we seek to explore. However, the external is filled with so much wonder that we often overlook that one wonder that looks and examines. That concept known as consciousnes. The "I" overtakes it and intoxicates us into believing that we are king of our domain and therefore that the path we follow is the right. In truth, we know very little yet we are too quick to entertain the folly that we truly understand. We then pass a mirror and catch a glance of our eyes looking back at us and we have stop to wonder, who is that? and what is that? Yes, yes, I know it is me, but really who am I? LMAO. |
Indeed...
***************
I am Vesuvius of the word, Pompeiian heart.
Etna and Krakatoa were my poems.
Fuji. Kilimanjaro. Ring of Fire: all poems, all mine.
I wrote the groaning earth.
Tsunami! Coos Bay, Oregon Destroyed!
Homeless Thousands Flee! I wrote the poem,
phrased out the strict beat of the One Disaster,
all fire, all flood, and raging of the storm.
A minor mood produced the ant-plagued picnic,
the unexpected guest, the drunken boor,
the wedding washed downhill, and (out the window)
the bulldozed field: light verse, dashed off at will.
The while I write, my mad earth slews atilt
across a far-flung universe of pain,
spins blindly towards its date with sure disaster
in some black hole where stars plunge down to die.
Earthquake, famine, and plague: I wrote them all.
My words are everywhere upon the land.
Death, despair, decay, the mortal flesh
laid waste by time. By fear. By poetry.
Robt.
Message edited by author 2005-07-16 20:48:49.
|
