josh-rosen - Hello Poetry

Hello there sir! Why how do you do? I'm doing quite well. How about you? Fine, just fine. But my begonias are dying. They're wilting and wilting There's no bother trying. But try sir you must! That is what we do. To thrive and survive... Am I not just waiting in queue? Sitting and biding As time doth draw near. But your begonias are dying! What should I have to fear? For your garden you fool! Why its all that we've all got! A garden to till, And begonias to rot, But you've said it right there! The plant's reached its prime. And I am a man, With limited time. Aha! Now I've got you. A son of Camus* What if next its your roses? Then I bid them adieu! Your violets, hydrangeas? And lilys to boot? Do they mean nothing? But sir neither do you. I don't get your meaning... And that is the key. You will be alone! And thus Ill be free! So what will you do, With no garden to grow, Some dead begonias You'll be lost to ago. Perhaps you are right. My era will pass But Ill arrive at the answer At long, long last But what is it? You'll tell me? When you get there I mean. You remember my garden, Here like its been. My begonias are dying That is all you need know And maybe when yours do You'll finally know My garden is glorious There'll be no Death here What you have now Will soon disappear. But we're going in circles. May your garden grow tall, Why thank you good man! Before Death steals it all.

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Feb 4, 2013

Feb 4, 2013 at 10:47 PM UTC

An Ode to Begonias

Hello there sir! Why how do you do? I'm doing quite well. How about you? Fine, just fine. But my begonias are dying. They're wilting and wilting There's no bother trying. But try sir you must! That is what we do. To thrive and survive... Am I not just waiting in queue? Sitting and biding As time doth draw near. But your begonias are dying! What should I have to fear? For your garden you fool! Why its all that we've all got! A garden to till, And begonias to rot, But you've said it right there! The plant's reached its prime. And I am a man, With limited time. Aha! Now I've got you. A son of Camus* What if next its your roses? Then I bid them adieu! Your violets, hydrangeas? And lilys to boot? Do they mean nothing? But sir neither do you. I don't get your meaning... And that is the key. You will be alone! And thus Ill be free! So what will you do, With no garden to grow, Some dead begonias You'll be lost to ago. Perhaps you are right. My era will pass But Ill arrive at the answer At long, long last But what is it? You'll tell me? When you get there I mean. You remember my garden, Here like its been. My begonias are dying That is all you need know And maybe when yours do You'll finally know My garden is glorious There'll be no Death here What you have now Will soon disappear. But we're going in circles. May your garden grow tall, Why thank you good man! Before Death steals it all.

60

Well look at this place I must say you've done a good job With these trees but these fleas Have been eatin up your doggy today Well please may I have a bell rub My tummy's been grumblin up towards the sky Wonder why your time has Passed us by Well just look at your shoes Laces tangled and soles in the sky And you aren't bringin them down, no sir Now I pray for these ****** fleas to fly away Or soon Ill be thinking about running away

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Jan 21, 2013

Jan 21, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC

Fleas

Well look at this place I must say you've done a good job With these trees but these fleas Have been eatin up your doggy today Well please may I have a bell rub My tummy's been grumblin up towards the sky Wonder why your time has Passed us by Well just look at your shoes Laces tangled and soles in the sky And you aren't bringin them down, no sir Now I pray for these ****** fleas to fly away Or soon Ill be thinking about running away

13

Its easy to forget, really That there's blood in all this It is there though, I assure you It grows, like flowers in a field It manifests Like this sense that we are right We are golden We are free That we and only we can be bound by this righteousness A small community of flag wavers Each with a small, rolled up copy of the constitution up their **** The blood is there, I swear it I am quite sure With every living and breathing limb A member of the politicians puppeteer act And for this emblem (Everyone must wear it we say!) We shall flood the red sea So let us suppose it is a chess game That is how it seems to me Perhaps blood is merely a figment A placebo for patriotism In this chess game We wave our flag as puppeted Hope, dance, howl and pray for a checkmate

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Jan 13, 2013

Jan 13, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC

Soldier and his gun

Its easy to forget, really That there's blood in all this It is there though, I assure you It grows, like flowers in a field It manifests Like this sense that we are right We are golden We are free That we and only we can be bound by this righteousness A small community of flag wavers Each with a small, rolled up copy of the constitution up their **** The blood is there, I swear it I am quite sure With every living and breathing limb A member of the politicians puppeteer act And for this emblem (Everyone must wear it we say!) We shall flood the red sea So let us suppose it is a chess game That is how it seems to me Perhaps blood is merely a figment A placebo for patriotism In this chess game We wave our flag as puppeted Hope, dance, howl and pray for a checkmate

26

** Hum ** Hum I like to hum Without rhythm Melodies of no real meaning Like an absurd classical enthusiast Musing on the harps and the horns Contemplating the oboe with almost satirical curiosity If nothing but humming existed in my mind I think I could be content If I were of mind and not body Just an empty boat on a river With a breeze rolling through You could call me imaginary So blank So lost I would be an idiot! But who would know? I could go through the motions Rolling boulders up and down like the all But inside my head Behind the curtain I would be free ** Hum ** Hum

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Jan 10, 2013

Jan 10, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC

You could call me imaginary

** Hum ** Hum I like to hum Without rhythm Melodies of no real meaning Like an absurd classical enthusiast Musing on the harps and the horns Contemplating the oboe with almost satirical curiosity If nothing but humming existed in my mind I think I could be content If I were of mind and not body Just an empty boat on a river With a breeze rolling through You could call me imaginary So blank So lost I would be an idiot! But who would know? I could go through the motions Rolling boulders up and down like the all But inside my head Behind the curtain I would be free ** Hum ** Hum

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