Sunday, May 29, 2016

Doubts rain down...


Another day dawns.

Doubts rain down.

Buckle it.

Y'er pissing in the wind matey.

Doubts rain down.

I feel myself slipping.

I feel myself weakening.

Doubts rain down.

I hear the words of others.

Please keep on.
Hold that line.
Hold that line.

Arts of the Possible.

"We may feel bitterly how little our poems can do in the face of seemingly out-of-control technological power and seemingly limitless corporate greed, yet it has always been true that poetry can break isolation, show us to ourselves when we are outlawed or made invisible, remind us of beauty where no beauty seems possible, remind us of kinship where all is represented as separation."

Adrienne Rich.


Caged Bird.

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the 
current ends
and dips his wing in the 
orange suns rays and dares to 
claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his
narrow cage
can seldom see through his 
bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his 
feet are tied so he opens his 
throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a
fearful trill
of things unknown but longed 
for still
and his tune is heard on the
distant hill
for the caged bird sings of
freedom.

The free bird thinks of another
breeze
and the trade winds soft
through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a 
dawn-bright lawn and he
names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the 
grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a 
nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his
feet are tied so he opens his 
throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a
fearful trill
of things unknown but longed
for still
and his tune is heard on the 
distant hill
for the caged bird sings of 
freedom.

Maya Angelou.





3 comments:

  1. I often feel like I'm part of the band on the deck of the Titanic, playing music as the ship is sinking. Many say "great music" as they pass me by and get in lifeboats.

    The ship soon sinks.

    The music ends.

    Is the song, or the musician, remembered by those who survived?

    Does the power of a poem grow past the life span of the writer?

    The musician, and the writer, will never know.

    They can only believe.

    Write on.

    Play on.

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  2. Thank you Daniel.

    The ship of fools sails on.

    I think there is nothing so harmful as photoshopped "success".

    Many times I write as all else fails.

    Ours is a ship of fools :-)

    ReplyDelete
  3. Hi Simon, I read your post again today, in the aftermath of another senseless act of violence, this time in Orlando, FL. I hope some poet, writer or musician will someday (soon) come up with something that helps bring humanity through the chaos and hatred that seems to be growing in so many places.

    ReplyDelete