Tag Archives: reality

Birthday Balloons

Birthday balloons are here still
Though the cards are no longer on display.
How long will
Balloons stay
Held up by gas
Until, at last
They deflate, and sink to rest?

‘Tis best
To put them away.
Yet they
Remain on display
But the pretend
Will descend
One fine day.

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A Long Way Back

The barefoot girl who never was
Because
The beach
Remained out of reach
To me.
I hear the sea
And feel the sand
But I can not command
Your hand into mine,
For I find
That you are a mermaid of my mind,
Or perhaps half real,
Though one can not a kiss seal
With a middle-aged man’s hazy recollection
Of a perfection of skin
And imagined sin.

Runaway Car

A bizarre
Dream of a runaway car,
As real
As this desk I feel.

A mad man driving,
Me striving
To get out.
No point to shout.

Me on the phone.
The driver alone
In his crazed head.

We stop, I am not dead.
A few incoherent words are said
By one
Who is in his mind far gone.
I stay.
He moves away.

A day breaks much like any other.
Soon I may discover
What man drove that phantom car
And who we really are.
Perhaps he is me
And I am he …

Poetry Isnt Real

“Poetry isn’t real” you said.
I shook my head
For what the poet feels
Is real.
The words in the poet’s brain,
His whole train
Of thought
Is caught
And given life upon the page.
His poems may forever dance
And bring romance
To the paper stage.

A poem can make one laugh or cry.
So why
Can you not try
To lift your eyes from the ground,
And gaze upon something profound?

Life is but a dream

I spent the earlier portion of this evening with my old friend Jeff. As ever, our conversation ranged far and wide. One topic on which we dwelt at length revolved around what constitutes reality and how, at any given point we can be certain that what we are experiencing is real. When one dies, my friend remarked, the world ceases to exist. While I don’t wish to get into whether my dear friend is, in fact right, I had in the back of my mind during the entirety of our conversation a poem by A. E. Housman and, on returning home I felt compelled to look it up. The lines run thus:

“Good creatures, do you love your lives
And have you ears for sense?
Here is a knife like other knives,
That cost me eighteen pence.

I need but stick it in my heart
And down will come the sky,
And earth’s foundations will depart
And all you folk will die”.

Kevin