Paul Revere by Cyrus Dallin, North End, Boston

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A Metaphor for the GOP

Sunday, December 30, 2012

Sunday Night Poetry

The Problem With Meaning 

Meaning is an old shoe laboring on Mondays 
to blister your walk on pathless grass. 
A low-watt bulb tires of the news, but opens  

an eye each time a paradigm shifts into view 
and faith launches examinations, 
accurate as heat-seeking missiles. 

You recall everything, fall into a trap 
of details. The best you can do is qualify facts. 
Each word becomes a symbol for poultry, petals 

or diamonds. Nothing is pinned to corkboard. 
Tomorrow the papers get thrown out. Despair 
solves one part of this agony as you see possibilities 

when a look over the shoulder divines 
a bloated construction, approaching ripe as a fig. 
Being is not doing as the philosopher suggests. 

Sit for a time in the salon of interpretations, 
try to secure the perimeters of wind. 
Qualm forms a sheltering impass 

for hinge and proviso, points its wet finger 
at the enigmatic apple. It won't be long 
before your lamb is brought to the stone, 

 before you wipe away the allegations 
 you find on your shoes.

                                      --S.K.

3 comments:

FreeThinke said...


_________ Is It Worth Dying? _________


Is there anything worth dying for, I ask?
Show me why I should give up my life.
I feel this Gift from God is like a cask
That too soon emptied functions like a wife

Who pledges love, then treats it like a task,
Or welches on an honorable bet ––
Reneging, shameless, insolent to bask
Truculent –– a Booby Trap to Let.

How ironic to be born just to regret
Duty’s dreary dictates spelling Doom ––
Years of preparation to beget
Impossible demands shrouded in gloom.

No innocence should be required to cede
Great future hopes to selfish monsters’ greed.


~ FreeThinke - November, 2011

S.W. Anderson said...

An elegant, thoughtful poem, Shaw. I like it.

Silverfiddle said...

I like it also. It feels as though meaning, your search for it and our arguments over it, have worn you out.

The best art is born not of happiness and sunshine, but dark moods and clouds.