Thought

Listen not to the poets
they are but martyrs to madness
who would have you burn too.

Poetry Day

I shall not write any verse
no rhymes to praise the day
for this world and we are cursed
and what is left to say
as fine words bring no peace
nor feed the hungered cold
deliver the bound to their release
or balm the crippled soul
for words at best are quiet things
to make of two minds one
but at their worst they burn and sting
and all their worth is gone.

Philosophy 101 (a reissued rhyme)

here’s a hole in Greece
where once in peace
lay old Aristotle
they dug it up
found a Starbucks cup
and an old Heinz ketchup bottle
but the sage himself
was not inside
he’d nipped out for a drink
and there he met
poor Socrates
having a little think
upon the theme
of who we are
and the meaning of our life
but up he sprang
when the phone rang
shouting “I’m not here if that’s the wife!”