Jul 2017
the sign on the railway station says "Common Destination,"
the ties of our tracks are uniform, creosote covered, splintered,
spaced uniformly as is the wont of the arm-in-arm soldiers,
different regiments in the same army, though as they march,
some on the high, some the low road, in defense of the values,
right, right, right.
no believing in forever land, dreamt of poems forever burning,
real life farenheit bonfires lit by brown uniforms and such, thus,
now, when a poem completed and shared,
it is instantly disfigured,
by flames harnessed to lick
the slate page clean, immediately,
presenting yet another opportunity,
to protest, persistently,
endless be my own turnkey hands renewing,
my write to right.
my write to right,
my pupose; my only intent, even in love poems,
ogdiddy witty ditties, long dialogues with the creator, all purposed,
all written while standing one on left foot, are we not all
poets of the ways to increase the sum total of
righteous and kindness in the world.
'tis right to write,
but go further and farther,
write to right.
to ease, comfort, shoulder and hand extensions, be the lean-to,
the shelter when there is no shelter, for there is no
owning words, and no limitation on clear vision and
the right to write.
the ties of our tracks are uniform, creosote covered, splintered,
spaced uniformly as is the wont of the arm-in-arm soldiers,
different regiments in the same army, though as they march,
some on the high, some the low road, in defense of the values,
right, right, right.
no believing in forever land, dreamt of poems forever burning,
real life farenheit bonfires lit by brown uniforms and such, thus,
now, when a poem completed and shared,
it is instantly disfigured,
by flames harnessed to lick
the slate page clean, immediately,
presenting yet another opportunity,
to protest, persistently,
endless be my own turnkey hands renewing,
my write to right.
my write to right,
my pupose; my only intent, even in love poems,
ogdiddy witty ditties, long dialogues with the creator, all purposed,
all written while standing one on left foot, are we not all
poets of the ways to increase the sum total of
righteous and kindness in the world.
'tis right to write,
but go further and farther,
write to right.
to ease, comfort, shoulder and hand extensions, be the lean-to,
the shelter when there is no shelter, for there is no
owning words, and no limitation on clear vision and
the right to write.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2022913/the-right-to-write/
The Right To Write
Who remembers the greats,,historians and stars of stage and screen when their lights are extinguished.
All their import diminished in the scheme of things.
What lasts and why do we care when our history is wiped out or rewritten.
Each generation smitten with laying down rules, only to have them overthrown,
a mere stone thrown in an ocean of white noise.
Do we stand poised on the edge, or out on a ledge?.
I shed my own light on a page, waging a war on the world,
a stray curl twisted in deepest thought brings thought unsought,
and soon I'm caught up in a snare.
Who will care if writing becomes restricted
as predicted, the same with books they want them burned
and poetry spurned in an attempt to **** thought?
Who will lead the drive to reach the stars,
and climb the stair to who knows where?
Will our pathway be light or dark, is this our future or merely a lark? How blighted would life be without written word,
imagination kicked to the curb?
The hell with the planets the moon and the stars
belt out your song in just eight bars,
write your fate on a forbidden page'
sage thoughts in rhyme perhaps in double times
rewinding our history, for one more adept
where the orators spoke and the audiences wept
when anthems sung rang out so proud
we all stood up and sang aloud in joyful praise
the patriotism of saner days.
Now all is chaos and we're the pawns
as darkness falls on priceless dawns
no paper, no ink, no sky of pink
no endless tale, no hope at all
the poets all crumble into a heap,
perhaps to sleep an endless sleep.
Yet days will come when an errant breeze
will stir the cobwebs in the trees
and willful minds will start to think
and shuttered eyes begin to blink
then thoughts will stir with magic flair
until a word appears, then another
and another spinning endless spheres.
Then up it rises from grave and ground
a surging of an endless sound
one can hear it all around.
Rhythm and rhyme line after line
sung to a tune in three quarter time
until people once again take pen in hand
and let their emotion and thought expand.
Perhaps poetry is our forever land
a turnkey that debunks future histories?
Never cease and desist always resist
and persist. insisting on our right to write
be it day or be it night, in war or peace, the least
amongst us has the right, the staid and true or the
fly by night. Write on my friends and take thee heed
thank God we're such a persistent breed.
The Right To Write
Who remembers the greats,,historians and stars of stage and screen when their lights are extinguished.
All their import diminished in the scheme of things.
What lasts and why do we care when our history is wiped out or rewritten.
Each generation smitten with laying down rules, only to have them overthrown,
a mere stone thrown in an ocean of white noise.
Do we stand poised on the edge, or out on a ledge?.
I shed my own light on a page, waging a war on the world,
a stray curl twisted in deepest thought brings thought unsought,
and soon I'm caught up in a snare.
Who will care if writing becomes restricted
as predicted, the same with books they want them burned
and poetry spurned in an attempt to **** thought?
Who will lead the drive to reach the stars,
and climb the stair to who knows where?
Will our pathway be light or dark, is this our future or merely a lark? How blighted would life be without written word,
imagination kicked to the curb?
The hell with the planets the moon and the stars
belt out your song in just eight bars,
write your fate on a forbidden page'
sage thoughts in rhyme perhaps in double times
rewinding our history, for one more adept
where the orators spoke and the audiences wept
when anthems sung rang out so proud
we all stood up and sang aloud in joyful praise
the patriotism of saner days.
Now all is chaos and we're the pawns
as darkness falls on priceless dawns
no paper, no ink, no sky of pink
no endless tale, no hope at all
the poets all crumble into a heap,
perhaps to sleep an endless sleep.
Yet days will come when an errant breeze
will stir the cobwebs in the trees
and willful minds will start to think
and shuttered eyes begin to blink
then thoughts will stir with magic flair
until a word appears, then another
and another spinning endless spheres.
Then up it rises from grave and ground
a surging of an endless sound
one can hear it all around.
Rhythm and rhyme line after line
sung to a tune in three quarter time
until people once again take pen in hand
and let their emotion and thought expand.
Perhaps poetry is our forever land
a turnkey that debunks future histories?
Never cease and desist always resist
and persist. insisting on our right to write
be it day or be it night, in war or peace, the least
amongst us has the right, the staid and true or the
fly by night. Write on my friends and take thee heed
thank God we're such a persistent breed.
