For R.A.: Problem solver
One day I’ll write a verse, oblivious,
While inertia’s mortal pendulum blasts
Through its deadly arc—grim lascivious
Instrument—and that verse will be my last.
Face it—last things weigh more. Goethe, dying,
Called out “More light! More light!” Did failing sight
Provoke that anguished cry? Or mad vying—
Desperate for bright words to cure dark blight?
It rankles, though. What if my final lines
Pronounce thin whimpers, trifling, foolish stuff—
Splintered music struck from tuning fork tines
Ruined by age—discordant lyrics, all bluff?
A friend opined: “Your fears could be contained;
Work up a serious verse—use your head,
Craft it, polish ‘til it shines, flares your brain;
Then, to insure it’s last, shoot yourself dead!”
(4/25/09)