Now as at all times I can see in the mind's
eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale
unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depths of
the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten
stones,
And all their helms of silver hovering side
by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find
once more,
Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial
floor.
There's a goose, a goose on the loose!
They scare me, though we have a truce.
The meanest bird you'll find in the park,
I bet they started shit on that Ark.
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these
recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless,
of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself,
(for who more foolish than I, and who
more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the
objects mean, of the struggle ever
renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding
and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the
rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring --
What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here--that life exists and
identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you
may contribute a verse.
The squirrel freezes -- unblinking --
But I cannot help but thinking:
How come its tail is misbehaving?
A betrayal by spastic waving!
an autumn sapling,
red leaves on a stiff twig,
shakes in the breeze;
i can't help but think of it
as a gray-haired baby.
I never hear the word "Escape"
Without a quicker blood,
A sudden expectation --
A flying attitude!
I never hear of prisons broad
By soldiers battered down,
But I tug childish at my bars
Only to fail again!
I'd never seen an Impala,
until one day I did.
Except an eighty-five Chevy,
back when I was a kid.
The Chevy was not lean, nor quick,
as real Impalas are.
Had this bovid ever been seen
by the namer of cars?
I tried to see commonality:
one was made and one born,
One was clunky and unagile,
but both came standard with horn.
Write me a spell:
A tiny bit of magic --
Nothing massive
Or mind-blowing --
Just a simple piece
Of Magic.
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not
please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the
what we know.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 