This was inspired by my friend Ulf who takes umbrage at my predisposition for rhyme and meter which he interprets as weakness. You ought to write prose, says he.

The Meaning Of It All: a race that is no race
(a poet speaks)
I may never be ‘streamed’,
(the modern stamp of popularity)
No theme alike in all I write,
For all I write is as diverse as hours in the day,
The changes taking place within the mind
With just one cup of of coffee
Or the viewing of a tragedy
On a ubiquitous TV.
Yet, with eyes to see
There is consistency,
A constant that is, let us say, a me,
A thread of personality,
Of pity for the way of, shall we say, humanity.
A love for the reality of life,
A search for its illusions,
And when seeing them,
A reaching for the answers.
And then the need to write them out;
A kind of scientific paper never absolute per se,
But sure there is a key
Even to death’s mystery
Which still eludes the me.
Wherefrom come this need to share?
Not fame, not name
Though they are protons in the atom’s lair.
No, the need lies deeper than the gene or cell.
A part of creativity and tendency to feel well.
A part of love that satisfies the giver
Just as much as it might satisfy receiver.
Desire’s hope gets in the way.
A hinder to analysis and objectivity.
Hope’s desire is the night to day.
Thus verse instead of prose.
One bouquet instead of one sweet aromatic rose.
Thus a freedom formed from discipline, revision;
Tiring and emptying until a moment’s inspiration
Jostles for first place:
A race that’s is no race.

The Meaning Of It All: a race that is no race 3.17.2019 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Circling Round Reality; Arlene Nover Corwin