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Open Poetry #30
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The Artist, The Youth, The Philosopher (final version)
| Open Poetry #30 |
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The Artist, The Youth, The Philosopher (final version) |
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davidmerriman Member
since 2003-04-30
Posts 123Dallas, TX |
The Artist, The Youth, The Philosopher A little boy, green and brown eyes plastered Against the cold of the glass, dew beading And fogging the morning view, to capture The blurring of shapes and colors fleeting, Flashing endlessly. It's like a river Of existence outside, roaring quietly Into a soft, cool hum half imagined. The train has been rolling across its track For as long as we can remember. It twists and turns and it departs and boards. But the boy is still young, and marveled by The bleeding scenery outside. It flows And never clots into something distinct. He squints and tries to watch for a pattern. Rows of trees whiz by, and a blotch of green Smears across his hazy view—sprayed splattered Like a gush of paint along brown and gray Landscapes. The trees make his small lips bend up. But why did he assume that green makes trees? It’s what everyone on the train said. But, Who knows? It could have been paint after all. The train keeps rolling; time passes swiftly. Its steel wheels lap in clicks across the track, Quickly piling into one manifold, One great, long, rushing, rumbling, rolling sound. Different men have turned its gears, but always The same path it takes, though each passenger Sees their own unique show of scenery. The boy watches a bit of blue glide by, And it makes him sad. Not because blue has, As a color, emotions of sorrow And sadness that weight down its lovely hue. No, the boy grew sad because, through the Fog, he could never know quite what it was. And his heart longed for it to be a bird. I’ve been thinking, the boy says, about words. Go on, says the man sipping a dark drink Swirling of cream and bellowing with steam. Well, he says, lightly brushing his small fingers Against the plastic plush of the chair-back, Isn’t everything what we make of it? Isn’t this train, this chair, both our creation? Are not words simply thoughts to make order Out of our chaotic, intricate world? Yes, said the man, that is partially true. But how can you explain the simple laws That govern the universe in physics And mathematics? Aren’t these useful truths? Then names and thoughts have a use, a purpose. But obviously this reality Is of our own making. Our eyes see light, And our ears hear the rupture of sound waves. We see the world through time, cause and effect. But if that’s all reality is, bound By our logic, by our perception, then That means the very first effect, the one… That triggered all of creation? Adam And Eve and the Seven Days? Why, that’s God My boy! And Jesus Christ. There’s your answer Right there. But you’re not religious, are you? The man scratched an imaginary itch And the boy, frustrated, resumed speaking. No, listen to me, for just one moment. God, Allah, The Big Bang, why take your pick! All are effects that need some sort of cause, Which, in turn, need an effect. It’s endless And paradoxical. Obviously Our rules for reality only work In our own reality, and there is Obviously more to existence then that. This means the only thing there is, is us. This train which I get so tired of riding Is a train to me awake. But asleep It is a bed of clouds, a forest with Vines outstretched, grasping down my hands. It is Anything my mind wishes. But for now, To someday depart, I must see the train. The man slowly shook his coffee. He turned To the window and watched once again The foggy scenery through the window. You, young man, are not yet a physicist Nor a philosopher. You should get out And experience the world before you Make such a wild, ridiculous claim. On the contrary, said the boy, you are making claims In saying that men hold absolute truths. I say we know nothing, nothing at all. The only thing we know for sure is that We each have made our own reality. Our minds give us a picture of the world, And they can change reality at whim. When you dream, you build a reality Useless to living but still convincing. The only thing we know is that our view Of reality is not complete. Now, Who is the one who needs to go out and Experience the world? Closing their jaws, They stop talking and shift back into thought. The sky cracks into morning, yellow blue Shimmering, sparkling through the dewed window. The boy sits and sighs, soon to realize, What good can come of words? He sits and sucks His senses like an anemone, deep In the depths of existence. Whether strings Or spirits, the ride is still beautiful. Who am I to say what is right or wrong? Who am I to judge another person, Their life, their experience, and their views? But then, why can’t I judge? Why judge my own Judgment? It’s all very confusing and Playing with words grows tiresome. The boy Is still young and has much playing to do. my writings |
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| © Copyright 2004 David Merriman - All Rights Reserved | |||
Marge Tindal 
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384Florida's Foreverly Shores |
David~ This is a fascinating tale ... I've read it twice and will do so again so that I may sift through the multi-layered thoughts~ Fascinating ! *Huglets*  ~*Marge*~ ~*When the heart grieves over what it has lost, |
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BluesSerenade Member Patricius
since 2001-10-23
Posts 10549By the Seaside |
Long, but worth it! Very interesting and nicely put dm~ I enjoyed pondering your poetry here. Since this is the final version, I'm inclined to think this could be several poems, within a poem?? Seems to me. |
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