Saturday, November 2, 2013

The End Of Everything

Sentience won't bestow
any particular rank,
not this time, bucko.
Status doesn't count.
The glory that was Rome won't
matter, not at all.
We went to the moon.
So what, me hearties?  So what?
The Mars messages
and the craft passing
Pluto are bubbles of no
concern, no matter
how much it all cost.
So much froth, rime on the gourd.
We watch the stars fail,
the galaxy shred,
the ice race north to south or
south to north - old Sol
is completely gone.

‎November ‎1, ‎2013   4:55 PM


  1. Feeling in a positive mood today, Christopher? :)

    That's not a criticism of course. If you are feeling down at the moment, it is quite understandable, and it will pass as you know.

    Of course your poem could just be a cosmic-sized wind-up.

    1. Actually is just a story. Of course the shape of the stories may arise in the soul appropriate to the sense of things extant. But also consider sloth. It is easier to compose in nearly any medium on the darker side. Bright happy works are just harder to make graceful as well. I am sure you have seen it before. So consider the lazy poet just dashing something off, not wanting to struggle in the polishing process at the moment. Or how about this scenario (the true one) that the lazy poet finds someone else who did the same thing and finds his momentary inspiration in the lazy story someone else told? How about that?

      It is just not really useful to assume the poet is always alluding to self.

    2. I will offer this of myself for sure. I frequently sit under the calling "I call myself a poet. Poets write. It is time to write. Something, anything." Practice, practice, practice..l


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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