When I read a stranger’s poetry,
I often do prepare
for too much sentimentality
and more clichés than I care bare.
Rhyming words are thrown abound;
archaic words are too much seen.
The poets merely like the sound,
with little care for what they mean.
But sometimes, I’m forced to stand,
and I pace around the room,
for the poet has put heart to hand,
and deep within me their words loom.
Thousands of movies and books
have shown me things that I’ve not seen,
but I don’t know how it all looks
away from the pages and the screen.
I look out upon the falling snow
as it paints and fluffs the village yonder
and I see it as some art to know,
with the rest still mine to ponder.
I run from the setting sun
and hide in the cerebral night.
It will try again tomorrow
to catch me in the light.
Until then, though, I’m fine,
and I’ll pretend I have no foe.
The darkness is a haven,
lighted by familiar glow.
When the morning comes
and I’m chased by beams of terror,
I’ll look upon my long shadow
and ponder my strides of error.
A budding peace
that I don’t know
surrounds my mind.
Thinking will cease
if I move slow
and act resigned.
If I move soon,
and think a lot,
I can evade
and be immune
to the onslaught
of peace’s aid.
And if I stay
who will I be?
And what is being?
I’ll find out today,
I won’t be feeling.
stumbling, mumbling, falling down
sleeping, dreaming, waking frown
thinking, seething, living through
blinking, shrinking, responding to
floating, laughing, building afar
vaulting, halting, dying star
tripping, gripping, sitting back
breathing, leaning, shifting track