The Poetry Book
by
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THIRTY THOUSAND DAYS YET TO COME
Approximately 80 Years
How can an Infant die
when funerary Flowers have yet to
bloom?
How can such hands hold but air
when the Pleasures of a thousand
Valleys roam?
Hands that should woods and grassland banks inspect,
o’er ruins of rocks would climb,
up Hills of Sand which still beg a King
to welcome Home & light atop their Breast,
and lo! - to linger there,
- to treasure there,
- to chance fend off
the Challenges of thirty thousand Days yet to come;
AND OFF, with hardly a rest, such
hands
to lay back the Wilderness -
Abound to collect every Meadow’s
secret, leaping, humming, winging Affairs;
And wilder round the groves
to their branches claim;
scrambling up, then down,
to hang off their boughs; and
heady to the precipitate top,
to climb out
and reach the Sky, and precariously
grab the Sun -
and o - by all I love dear
I can not understand How an Infant’s
Hands can hold such coldness,
having grabbed at such warmness;
How can such hands hold so still,
when there’s so much to be held,
& treasured,
and so much yet to come -
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Book Details
About the Book
Recently I ran into a poetry book. It had several authors names on it. It cost a penny not ready to be given up. It was rich in brutality. It was as common as children and dirt. It thrilled its reader’s because its readers were criminals. The edition even included maps to keep the inferior races from overshooting their islands. And printed on paper so fine its movement through whispers did cleanse the tears of the weak of heart. Let me take from this poetry, its opening --
In the beginning -
But that would be plagiarism.
Let us caution such theft, and make
for ourselves - poetry – made of true
Life, Death, and Love --
In the end,
Existence-in-play is the world
The world divides between the poem & disaster
The privilege of disaster is
oblivion:
the vanishment of humanity
the abyss of the void
The privilege of man is Poetry wherein heart’s hunger experiments with life
The balance of life is called Fate
Fate is only fate that avoids the disequilibria of love
For Love experiments with Life
What Love represents is Sense
What Sense represents is poetry in humankind
For if there is no thing poetic
of man,
then
whether a proposition has sense, or has none,
remains
irrelevant
Without poetry, the power of Irrelevant propositions can kill
About the Author
The author has a degree in Physics with a minor in mathematics. He has worked in a variety
of fields both technical and non-technical. He currently works as an Information Systems Analyst for the State
of