Seems the spirit ever mends,
though the light behind it bleeds.
Poor lamp am I…how strange
that the mind should sharpen
while the maggot feeds.

Each day the world grows older,
yet her face remains fair, her view serene.
I’ve seen the way she jades her young,
and watched her fields rush green.
But only as the sight grows weak
can at last these old eyes see
what waits the clear, unbroken pools
in wide eyes peeking back at me.

You children play, and don’t mind me.
The sun lies full where I drift, content.
If I seem to be brooding
on happiness spent,
then forgive me, I’m grateful
to not have to brood on sorrow.

So you children play. Can it truly be!
Did time once bend, could slights once heal…
it seems so long—seems scarcely real,
that I was a creature of yesterday
who could not see past the morrow.

And where is that child now?

Is he dead, was he dreamt, is he lost for good,
or is he only sleeping?
He would run, he would leap, he would laugh if he could.
He has savored his life, has drunk it to the full.
Why then is he weeping?

No, you children play, and don’t mind me.
Embrace this splendid, fleeting day.
Look away.

Cling to the cup while the taste is sweet,
and bask in the light of your youth.
Ah, what is youth but a longing for age,
and age but a longing for youth.

Watch the blue dream resuming,
feel the moth in the fist.
Taste that warm promise tendered
in a child’s first kiss,
grown cold in the arms of the hunter,
matured, developed to—

This?

No, you children play, you children play.
The leech has yet to find you,
let your blood sing while it may.

The rabid angel’s eyes are bright,
her loving voice is lying.
Her ***** heaves, but the heart is cold.

Season to season, her black shadow clings.
Lamb after lamb, how pleasantly she stings.

All our lives we look to things. I tell you, by my eyes,
there are things behind things…stirring bashful children,
spiteful children—the angel drives her docile prey;
herding awkward children, skipping children,
skipping their childhood away.

No feat of man, no higher hand,
no will can hold the years at bay.
Alone, I watch them, day by day,
growing, slowing in their play.


Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com

They say there is a thin line between genius and madness.
I'm doing my best to balance between both realities at a time.
Smart enough to know the difference between good and bad.
Mad enough to still commit these sins, which is sad.
The path I decided to take no longer host light and captures darkness.
I guess you can say its more of a slipping off point.....

This isn't a poem at all, I mean
  seriously,
There is no poem to be viewed here,  
If I was the police I'd be waving you
  on saying
"Please move on, there's nothing to be
  seen here,
No! there are no poems in this
  vicinity,
I'd be holding up a sign "No Poem here, please go elsewhere to view a
  real poem",
But I bet some of you out there are
  nodding your heads thinking
"Hey! This is something different, this
  is really good,  yea! really clever
He's saying there's no poem here
It's a poem about No poems
A poem saying it's not a poem when
  really it is a poem"

But it's not a poem, it's not!!! (the
  author)

But they'd retort "Yea! A poem going
  thru an existential crisis,
A poem that doesn't believe it's a
  poem
A 'ghost' poem, a haunted poem
The poem that never was
Like a ghost ship floating thru
  the mist
Brilliant! I see what you're doing
  here
Man, that's genius, High Art,
This could be the best ****** poem
  you've  ever written!"

But it's not a poem, it's not! It's a
  mistake, an error (the author again)
I was just amending an older poem trying to make it look better on the
  page
When the Site saved it as a new poem
But it wasn't a new poem, it was an
  old poem
So I went in and deleted all the text
  hoping it would delete the poem
It deleted the text of the poem but gave the poem a title called "Untitled",
And then people went in to view the
  poem entitled "Untitled"
And they found nothing there
And then they got onto me informing me that my poem called "Untitled"
Wasn't showing up on my page
And they thought the Site was acting up.
So I had to write this explaining how
  this wasn't a poem at all
But now you probably think  
  it is a poem
You'll be thinking, "Sure when it comes to Poetry anything goes
It's like Shakespeare, "to be or not to
  be
Poem or no Poem, that is the
  question"
The Ying... or the Yang.
But it's not a poem, it's not !!!
But then I bet I'll hear
" O yes it is, don't be modest now
What a great poem!!!
No, it's not! "Yes, it is!"
No! "Yes!" No! "Yes!"
You just can't win can you???

Albert Einstein
Expanded our view beyond the skyline
Reluctant superstar and intellectual force
Relatively speaking, of course!






*
Poetry notes:
Albert Einstein's childhood nickname was "the ***** one." Einstein reportedly was slow in learning how to talk. That, combined with his tendency to whisper words softly to himself before saying them aloud led the family maid to nickname him "der Depperte"—the ***** one, according to "Einstein: His Life and Universe." (thejournal.ie)

You knock on the door, you cry and you fight,
You take a sip form a cup of somebody’s lies
You rage like a kid, you laugh and abuse,
Try to make all those fools see the stupidity of their own rules

Others don’t get, they don’t hear nor dream
To find deeper meaning in things that they see
To explore this life on their own cul (***)
Feel the pain, agony, thirst and again be refueled

With pleasure – drop of rain, winds’ kiss on your cheek,
Rivers’ flow, roses’ smell, suns’ bright shine on your skin

Describe the emotion, state of mind, things with words
No, old language won’t fit here… must invent new, my own
With more of a meaning, and passion in it
More precise, more refined, and no “censorshit”

God I shall doubt, folk I’ll despise,
Contemporaries shall call me “spoilt little child!”
I won’t pay attention to those hypocrites,
My work now is done, pay attention to the…

My gift to this greedy, rotten, sickening world,
It’s this book of poetry, which shall speak in my stead when I’m gone
For I talk through the ages, through decades of time,
Now genius I am, and this is a testament of mine

Chances are you forgot you have an ace
In your pocket, questionable thespians are weary, winsome women
In a poet's life, bringing him to temptation and avoiding coyness
Coarse behavior can be a form of attention and aptitude
But the coquettish reminded me of the inhibitions as an observer
An accosted girl left in a town also was a part of this terse reason
Edicts could have been written on her spontaneous knowledge
Buttressing this poor logic was her reasonable interest in my expression
Art, was a class apart when we sat together creating a dense-structured essay
Yearning for better proliferation in opulent desires, ideas were purloined
Carpe Diem became Carper Nocte
And the Illuminati Du Ponts were a sourced for respite
As her religion didn't interest me
Her faith in God brought me tears
I folded her legs and broke her spirit
Took her to a place where religion made me happy
The release was being with a long-lasting ******
The happiness was in the blood
Blackness hovered her face as she was gonna get it
The pressing of the abdomen didn't bring adolescence anymore
God what is time to those religious, but, reckless
In the everlasting love for enervated breath and emotion
Relentless, there were frescoes of superior litany veritably written