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Every work

Every work of art is a lie
And still there is no rest
You thought it some great search for truth
Someting learned from an urn then left
Or feelings truly felt inside....
Memories.....feelings....reality
All squishy....or French fried
Think you can really trap them
with letters brush or horn?
it's all just mud on a wall
Mud gone mad Beckett style
At best it's lightnin bugs
Pretendin' to be stars
Every metaphor makes me wonder
what I met her for
Kafka knew
For you can't hear or understand me
Within me and without me
there is truth
But it's jazz notes slurred
Ink smudged
It is that patch of yellow
inspires joys
Hope...a crown of light flashing
On a lake
like a rope to tell you to go...walk this way...find this path
And if you fall....if you fail
well it's all fragile anyway
Can't be had....can't be owned
Just is
....back to a vapor
Squishy again
More like a dream than a dram
More phlegm than flam
Why we are more mouse than man

Submitted: Friday, September 13, 2013
Edited: Monday, September 16, 2013


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Comments about this poem (In The Morning by Bull Hawking )

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  • Jim Hogg (1/30/2014 1:07:00 PM)

    A penetrating and well read mind probing the self inflating mystery that we are... maybe if we could accept that we are less than we think..we might not then feel as much contempt for much that we do..

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