Still Good

You could say that life starts with poetry
because that’s how many long-lasting
ideas jump out of nothing, the way flowers
emerge from a nearly invisible rock-like substance;
but life continues moving.

Why see the world the way some imaginative
sage did long ago when that lost world
of many things has slipped away?

I know. The arguments, like tumbling sky hawks,
are profound. I have argued them myself
and actually still love how
eagerly people discuss them.
Some dead men’s wives
cry over the old ways with words.

I carefully weigh what these old
ones knew and heard, with what
I see.

It isn’t right, what’s going on now.
I often deplore the life that
presents itself to my face. Some of
the old that I know
and have learned

still seems so solid and good.
If only there were a way back.
The readings of my wise old friends’ words
brought me a life time of my own reading
and learning.
I am made to feel that I must be harnessed
to a passing world.

How swift us people move,
how quickly we forget.
Birds still fly, plants still grow.
Men kill and widows weep.

New forms of understanding
must not forget what we’ve
forever known.
And those forms?
New forms will not change
our old insides.
Men kill and widows weep.
Some of the old poetry
is still good though.

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