Apologies to Shakespeare and Burns
“Love” (“Lust” really) and “Death,” we’re often told,
Infuse the bulk of all poetic art.
I’ve loved a lot while tumbling toward the cold
Dark consequence of Death’s sharp toxic dart.
So listen up! Comparisons enthrall—
She’s better than a summer’s day, a rose—
And age—like leafless boughs, emitting gall—
Might catch your kin’s attention I suppose.
Still, dammit, poets tend to miss the point—
A life goes way beyond hormonal flares,
And passings we so fervently anoint.
Lost love, decrepit age inflame despair;
But hunger, shelter, warmth’s what life’s about,
While billions suffer lives all hollowed out.
(4/18/12)