Stopping by Toledo on a Snowy Evening

A NOTE: Silliness ensues amongst a few deeper thoughts. Quality not guaranteed.

My roommate tells me he’s in love with an Angel. Honestly, what word rhymes with Angel? And what would he know of Angels? There again, what would I? I know, I know, its prose, Perhaps prose, I suppose, But it shows there’s a rose to be had, And I’m glad he’s not sad for the moment. But he will most assuredly be sad And then mad and then glad And it’s bad to think that a handful of drinks makes you evil For after all, if you’re having a ball And the world seems too small to live soberly, Just talk to me. About three. I’m as sober as a lost man can be. Trying not to be indecisive in life, And lacking Byron’s eloquence, Poe’s rhyme and rhythm and song’s mournful tune, Faced with the strife of the haunting illusions I’ve carried them far from the high school they’ve known, The berries untended small seedlings have grown, I am not deluded and though have intruded This brooding within is no cause to call sin, Maturer am I, but the road is so long The valleys are deeper, the mountains are strong, I sing, but the birds only hum in the trees, The bees are not buzzing, instead are becausing The reason the frogs do not croak And I choke Yes, the poke of an iron to reach for my heart, But in part, For my art is divided with love and the guided Fragments of words Shards of unheard Fear And fire Passion, desire I am not so boring as some should inquire But these are the plain, the easily felt, And I laugh when I see them inside of myself For who has no passion, no burning within? And who’s not afraid that the darkness may win? Oh, who cannot love, and who cannot speak, When the water pours out of their eyes like a creek? Who is not broken when love has been lost, Or felt harshly slighted when dreams are the cost? I wonder if original thoughts are still thunk Perhaps we just add them like rings on a trunk Are emotions the same, others felt so before? Only old men and rocks needn’t worry for more If only I was old, if only I knew Where the mandrake roots grow What’s a heart that is true, If I were an old man, I’d know what needs done But by then its too late in the long setting sun My time is for now, and what do I do? I fiddle and faddle and wait till its due. And then past the time, and I wait till I’m through. And Seuss might have known, But his rhyme is his own. What’s with the A, and what’s with the B, The C and the D and the E, F and G? A rhyme is a rhythm, a flowing of words, It wags back and forth like a pendulum, Sure, it can be serious, or quite absurd, Only assonance rhymes with a pendulum Sure, I could write sonnets, be forthright and brave, Have logic and beauty and flow But form does to me as a digger would grave, It shirks me and makes my work slow. But why do I write this? I know its no good, This poem is worse than a rhyme ever should I’ve injured the readers, corrupted their minds, Let them think what I write is no problem, is fine, But Shakespeare ‘s far better, and Frost was no less, But Browning was overly wordy at best, Not that I’m better, but I didn’t like him, And now I’ll be crucified for that whim But the chances of critics’ approval were slim. In order to wrap up, I’ll leave no good ending, The prose will keep hanging, the rhyme long suspending, The reader will falter when approaching the end, This reader may curse me, and call me no friend To leave such a poem in utter disgust But at least no black ravens are perched on my bust. By Mark Burton November 1, 2001, 1:17 A.M. at time of finish