Has been posted on original blog in the past, but this is my attempt at keeping certain pieces of poetry "catalogued". :-) 8/31/2006
Bar Stool Philosophy
There he sits on a bar stool
Already drunk, gulping down beer
Inebriated yes, but hardly a fool
The patch on his eye riveting me
“What really rules us all is fear,”
He announces so matter of factly
Continuing to listen, I remain still
Something about this nondescript man
Says he knows life, has with it some skill
His rugged clothing and off kelter look
Dust tattered boots, with miles of wear
Rough hands and nails, dirt in each crook
Lungs smoke-wearied, gasping for air
‘What does it take to be smart?’
He rhetorically asks
‘Knowing the power which possess
our grand motives it masks
Our drive for anything, it addresses.’
He continues and says, ‘we stand on a pier
Well, metaphorically speaking
Surrounded by a body of water – this fear
Drenched with its terror – we are reeking
All we do, it will cheerfully steer.’
I must now look puzzled, confused
He puts down his glass, tips his head
On his face a knowing smile, bemused
He says to me, ‘what do people dread?
To be ridiculed, their grand egos bruised
Of not living up to expectations
Worry of living humbly or having not
Of not arriving at their true destinations.
Yet, who dictates where one goes?
Is it the ‘self’, God, someone who matters?
Really, its rule of how the wind blows
Strangers dictate, some dreams do shatter
Who are you and who am I
Are we ourselves or subjects of fright
How are we depicted to anyone’s eye
As true souls or sufferers of plight
For those lucky few who grab what’s theirs
Run with their spirits as much as they can
Are deemed as possessed, wild as mares
Imprudently bound for a short lifespan
Yet these great servants of Terror
Don’t meander and stay with a course
Each a soldier, a grand color bearer
Alive with but a fraction of force
If these puppets are free, most liberated
Then I am a mermaid and clad in silk
For few, if any, are truly satiated
Living with dread, self loathing, with guilt
By the end of so many journeys
It’s apparent that ‘being’ is in the shadows
So many souls escorted on gurneys
Mystified by feeling so cheated and shallow
I always say, our president was a prophet
‘Having nothing to fear but fear itself’
Is the essence of my rambling, my posit
For a man is a victim if he’s not
himself
Without further ado, the man stood up
Slapped down a worn and weary bill
Gulped down the last swallow from his cup
Then bid his goodbye and lumbered for the door
Me still wondering of his likeness to Dr. Phil
Footfalls disappearing now hollow on the floor...
Liz
