Lucky is the man that loves hard work
And thrives on the tasks and the noise
Of a life spinning out of control,
Neglecting all that it destroys.
How should his life lack any meaning;
His gaze is on what he enjoys?
Whether or not, his mind has forgot
What all of his neighbors and loved ones have sought,
What “ought” to his mind he employs
Foolish the man that revels in art,
Who’s fantasies flow out of calm.
Life still may spin, or maybe it twirls
With worlds and a sprite in each palm.
How is he to get anything done
If faith replaces each qualm?
And lo, what ho, to his dreamland he’ll go
Where Mahler and Checkov, Picasso, Thoreau,
And Poe will be singing him Psalms.
And thrives on the tasks and the noise
Of a life spinning out of control,
Neglecting all that it destroys.
How should his life lack any meaning;
His gaze is on what he enjoys?
Whether or not, his mind has forgot
What all of his neighbors and loved ones have sought,
What “ought” to his mind he employs
Foolish the man that revels in art,
Who’s fantasies flow out of calm.
Life still may spin, or maybe it twirls
With worlds and a sprite in each palm.
How is he to get anything done
If faith replaces each qualm?
And lo, what ho, to his dreamland he’ll go
Where Mahler and Checkov, Picasso, Thoreau,
And Poe will be singing him Psalms.
1 comments:
"And lo, what ho, to his dreamland he’ll go
Where Mahler and Checkov, Picasso, Thoreau,
And Poe will be singing him Psalms."
Very nice.
I'm always impressed by poems that rhyme. I can't seem to make those work for the life of me. Well done, sir.
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