Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.
Some are possessed of
Insect intelligence like beautiful black
And yellow bees: buzz and clean and
Work and clean and buzz and clean
And mate and clean and buzz buzz buzz buzz until you're
Crazy from the absolute absence of
Any vestige of originality or creativity, and they
Push you bodily out of the dictatorial hive.
Some, whom you love with an
Aching and consuming passion, can't
See beyond their own veils of pain, like
Aurora borealis painted curtains that frame
An intense world of hurt. Your suffering remains a
Detached and theoretical
Phenomenon to them, remote and ambiguous
Inkblots. The shifting visions of
Castles that they imagine, these they mistakenly
Imagine are imaginary, and they
Don't reach out their hands to the happiness that waits
One short gesture away.
Some, slowly
Watching their vision grow moth-eaten and fading,
Understand real value, though they must
Admire it from a nebulose and graying distance:
This bittersweet song of living in an Eden
Misidentified by oh so busy others as a
City dump.
Some we love no
Matter what, and we
Always will.
Well, I'm rather skeptic about such attempts and I'm sure you are aware and will agree that it is a horrendously difficult and precocious venture to thoroughly and justly describe mankind at all, no matter in how many tomes, let alone a few stanzas. But, of course, the sieving of the social pool and selecting a few 'types' to criticize, satirize or simply present for their own incongruity is a common practice of many great authors and/or philosophers. I found the first stanza very true and reflective of reality and hence amusing+ the onomatopoeic repetitions really laid some solid ground for the piece.
ReplyDeleteThe second stanza is likewise creative and interesting though perhaps a little too, ah I don't know, cliche in so far as the criticism itself is concerned. I mean, I heard this all too many times and the introvert, selfish individuals are presented as purely conceited, evil types and at that, a little dramatic and without the comical quality of the first stanza.
The ending I particularly fancied in so far as it was deep, tearful, emotional and touched me to the core of the soul, put fear into me, too, and made me wonder if I should ever, and probably will, become such a man with moth-eaten vision who understands but admires 'from a nebulose and graying distance'. The misidentified Eden is successfully tragicomic.
maybe i should go out on a limb and try writing fiction sometime.
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