Anonymous Work
Death of a Poet
CR 1979
It seems I just sit and record sentimental times,
Simple events of life,
Hoping, like fine wine,
They will have vintage with time.
Writing letters to myself,
Recording words
My only wealth,
Sweet and gentle,
Loving and smooth,
Meant to soothe pain,
To relax troubled minds,
To trouble lethargic consciences,
To kindle fires of love.
Having touched and observed life,
From the bottom to the top,
Recording Heaven and Hell,
Hoping someone might care,
Might read my lines,
Which note what has befell me.
That I dare to call myself a poet,
Yet, that is what I am,
Although my lines may be read by few,
Some only I knew,
Before they passed into oblivion.
The Scholars Dilemma
CR 1979
I thrust the torch into the darkness,
Only to allow that I have lit,
In the past,
Fall into darkness.
Wandering in failing wisdom,
The more I learn,
The more I yearn to know.
I forget so much,
So much falls into oblivion,
So much trivia remains alive.
In my study,
Books pile high,
So much I've learned recorded,
Now passed by collecting dust.
As the notes and books grow,
They become my burden,
Of all I should know,
All I can no longer recall.
How poor becomes my spirit,
How knowledge becomes all
I don't know
All I've forgotten.
I simply search out simple truths,
Generalities to which to cling,
How futile is my progress,
I must regress to recover from the books,
Which I have suppressed to serve my mind with new horizons,
Turning circles of the past in rediscovery.
Wisdom, art, beauty
Can they ever become a part of me,
As thought as seem in sweet young, dreams of ignorance?
