I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
How much liberty Or privacy do fictions Enjoy, and who knows?
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
Look at them with their little light boxes! They are supposed to be here to peer at us But the sight of our strong life flummoxes;
Alas, the modern night seems desolate Before reason and science wiped it clean Crowds of curious creatures did gyrate Darkness made every maid the shadows’ queen
Your mid-life crisis Comes when you realize that You have been acting
I used to derive great pleasure from long nights of eating and drinking and talking. It was best with lovers of wisdom. The plague put a stop to my awful little pub.
How frequently does it occur to you When you pose questions to other humans And they pause before expressing a view That this brief hesitation illumines
How safe do we really wish to become? Surely, yearning for safety from some things Seems natural, rational and wholesome;
Is your body something you have, or are? Dualism has a long history; Are you the driver of a fleshy car? Or is mind body? A real mystery
An enigmatic stranger approached me After my lecture yesterday evening; He seemed somber, but I could clearly see That he was intent upon conversing
Contemporary education seems To emphasize mere memorization; Which pulverizes the quixotic dreams Of those who cherish real comprehension
What do disasters teach us to value? Consider the culture COVID has made: Comfort and safety and normalcy new For them, many would through hot lava wade
If the world you knew and loved is no more Pulverized by plague or war or famine You can slam denial’s obstinate door But it opens, as facts you examine
