String Theory

Why then must poetry’s meaning be couched
Like the imagined sea-sound heard in a shell
May fleeting beauty, convoluted truth be vouched
Said simply and offered crystal-clear from a well

Will it help if I use night to presage age or death
Flying birds or forests standing in for nature’s glory
Will unformed clay, with just a twist, yield life, breath
Why cannot I a simpler rhyme use to tell my story

Yes, poetry may march in rhythm, a beating heart
Pounding surf upon the shore, inexorable entropy
Yet if my storm, my sun, my cloud don’t play their part
So misunderstood that they may be snatched from me

Simple is as simple does, or so his mama always said
When every single word may mean many things, misunderstanding
Can my true thought, intent, feelings be ever known or read
Yet call a spade a spade and they’ll say it doesn’t sing

               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Approaching dusk, I measured my slow tread homeward
As the multihued rays of Erytheia’s fan wave in the sky
Closing slowly, gently to reveal the jewel-speckled sward
I pause to watch the darkening vista, to wonder why

Each rise splashes color to daub a different day
Little feet, little hands, different pallets in truth
While backs bent and minds burdened we ply our way
Yet hearts alone bring the fulsome flavor to our mouth

Engorged with the infinite feast and more, we stop
Too empty, too full to risk another step toward home
Still we must dance the tune, our daily two-step hop
And hope it makes us feel that we are less alone

Wait, listen, don’t you hear the siren’s sweet, sad song
Filled with every joy, desolation, hope and nagging pain
That we know the evening’s curtain falls, calling us along
We bow, exit, poor players yearning to trod the boards again