What are poets for?

We conquer littleness, obtaining
success that only makes us small,
while, unconstrained and unconstraining,
the permanent eludes us all

Comments

I really like this poem of yours: "Conquering littleness success makes us small, unconstrained and unconstraining permanence eludes us all." If you tighten it up a little, as the suggestion above, it may help your thoughts delve into the moment. A different way of looking at it. Cheers, Richard LP
Richard L. Provencher
Cherry

what happened, when?

when it comes to grips with these life choices, back pocket begins to burn, there is no wallet, something has finished. paid for. where to go from here, did we take the only road?

"The past walks among us..."

The past walks among us, Lives our life for us, Betrays the present, Like nobles the peasant, And strikes the day down blind. (The grind Of past wretchedness:

A Few Haikus

1 Words life narration Seep through the gaps of cultures Causing confusion 2 An ant focusing On the toil of the day on Impassive mountains 3 Walking in the park

A Parodox

You stop me from being Blind to the world, unseeing, And all my hate consorts with your being, And anger sparks, me bereft of seeing An ill consumed wind between us,

Being Broken

A log cabin in the Amazon tells its tale of unfortunate love while they, standing before it, look on unsympathetically. The sky is crushing them and they will never know it.

Bi-polar

when it comes it comes, this self void hysteria of massive consequence, taking us high. its wings take us to a place not unlike the flower of opium and the cocoa plant. and we fly into mania.

Walking Out Out of the City

The sanctified burial ground expresses miles of unrestraint, a death-walk to the clouds, a beautiful land to be consumed by my feet. Death, guide me through to where no people reside

Walking Past (St Chad's to the Marina)

Youth is calling me back on it - Times a flourish with yellows, Greens brown white and blue - before the world turns black. The waterfront years on top of jetties,

outside staring in and inside staring out

their actions would be me I understand they are me they think me this is me

Some Kind of Philosophy

I’ve always needed someone to help me through all this; too bad I’ve never had anyone. Oh I’ve had someone, people here and there, but not really. So I say it again: I’ve never had anyone.

Looking Through Windows

We walked along the river as cars zipped by, honking at nothing, lights blaring. The bar across the road (used to be a cinema) way back in the 1950s – or something
Cherry

Illumination

It comes to be seen in all this travel, this migration, as if a shadow falls, and us left to make do, and lost circumstances. There was a sense of belonging at some point

Marks on the Horizon

It's all coming together it seems, as we walk through the Victorian Age freshly appreciative. Except high rises on all sides fulminating against us, clinging like sheets

Keeping Shtum

The ability to cross the road is all you can ask for these days and hope the flags don't get in your way. They can blind with impunity and keep you rigid at your desk, working to deadline,

Stump Sitters

We always end up in the wrong place - the last always being the worst - sharing our bed with dying wasps, and a half-way house for the homeless to sit outside and smoke.

False Springs

The weather brightened up for a while and we thought our day had come, but give it a day or two the overarching grimness will return, it must. It has, and us wearing

Marching Dilemmas

I close my eyes and see blue patches forming and wonder where they’re taking me. (This starts me off) Lying naked in bed and music, harmonicas and violins

Fresh Air

i Quiet in my barroom corner the occasion got to me and words exited their cave desperate for a deep well; the situation was severe but they lacked severity and

Phases

I came to this late still late from all the past nuances of imagination, of self-creation - seems like I've been this and that thing a distraction, but always interesting nonetheless -

Poem in the style of John Ashbery

Empty of everything the cloud looks magnificent, The sun has gone and all dark the conifer looks at me, And music always outside my window makes sense