Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

mirrors don't lie
but eyes are a prism
bending the light of recognition
into fantasy

and though true
for fantasy
it is a different thing
no one is king of reality
the sting of truth hurts too much

I am not the handsome guy
of daydream
doing important things
singing idol-like on stage
gorgeous women throwing
their inmost thoughts and garments
and I
always rising to the occasion
accommodating

Some wear health
exude hormones
pheromones
I am bent over with age
hobble to my destiny

recognition of truth
is not self-pity
just a mirror of facts

I am not spiritual
weaving smoke in my thoughts
spiraling light from my eyes
leaving desires behind
I am still blind
because the body is a gift
the soul a myth
which may or may not
be true
except in the living moment

the dead have no identity but a name
and the fame or pelting shame
others give is felt like rain on gravestones

the demographics of the dead
are all flat-line entries signed into oblivion

who
Houdini
has returned
without a leap of the living's belief
and what is belief but a moment's leap
into the deep night
a star exploding with light
oh how mortal is immortality

I am old
not self-pity
you bastard critics
but truth
and I don't like the truth
but it is better than what will come
a body and heart incinerated
to vapor
molecules so changed
so rearranged
a mirror will not shine light
or recognition
on them

Eliminate the two thems at the end of the poem?

This poem smacks anyone with religious belief and may exacerbate the sting of anyone grieving----if you take the poem seriously. I don't want to hurt or destroy anyone's beliefs. I doubt if that will happen except for the most unsure and weakest reader. The poem is my insight (?) into the shadows. Hopefully the fatalism is wrong. Hopefully there is a loving God but that God must be way beyond the human designs that deny the starkest questions and tyrannize lives. Yes, religion is a safety net, a comfort for many. I have little trust in the bastardized revelations that grace many an unquestioned book. All one can do is hope that the reality beyond this surface bubble is better but we may never know. Like a bubble our consciousness may just "pop". You have to live and float in the present moment.

I eliminated the repeating of "them" at the end of the poem. That echo of estrangement was interesting in concept but I doubt if the average reader would go there.

Also in reading through the poem this morning I see it as a necessary self-expression but it doesn't have wow factor.

This stanza may sound too spoken-word stagey

the dead have no identity but a name
and the fame or pelting shame
others give is felt like rain on gravestones

The rhyme is too juvenile. Cleverness may have outdone itself. The crucial part of the stanza is the pause, slight though it is, after "give" in the third line. I'm not ready to abandon the rhyme at this hour. Will add "pelting" to break up the dominant rhyme.

always a pleasure to read your poetry Dan....

how 'bout this danno...:

the dead have no identity
just a name or the fame
and pelting shame others give,
is felt like rain on the stones of the grave

it's fine the way you have, but it sounded like you were fishing for alternatives as it is clear you care about making it better

fine work as it stands plus two cents from the peanut gallery