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Terza Rambler
Looking through old poems for something to put up last night made me think about what I was writing then. Which thoughts, I decided, might as well rhyme. This form seems quite suited to rambling on. To rambling on about rambling on, even.
Sometimes I marvel at the words once said
by me, or someone who I used to be.
"Man, what the hell?" I think, and shake my head.
Of course there are some parts I still agree
with, I would still put into verse today.
But it's the differences stand out to me.
That I was so naive causes dismay
and forces me to face the question, "How
was I so wrong, I could those thoughts display?"
What's worse, I know I'm not much better now.
Indeed, it's not just words from years gone by;
there are quite recent poems I disavow,
and with a question much the same: "Oh why
did I let thoughts like this pollute
my mind when they are something I deny?"
Perhaps it would be better I were mute
and not of these vicissitudes aware,
at least not going over each minute
word, line or phrase so that I can compare
what I thought then and I think now, or in
the future yet may think. A new despair
comes with the thought of that. I can't begin
to wonder how my writings now will seem
to me when I have changed again. Within
all of this cringing, can I find a theme?
Perhaps it is a blessing, not a curse
to know one's mind can change, that one extreme
is not all I will know. The more diverse
the better, that's how balance best is sought.
I'll celebrate the changes in my verse,
for life is change, or so I have been taught,
as is all else, so why not also thought.
Sometimes I marvel at the words once said
by me, or someone who I used to be.
"Man, what the hell?" I think, and shake my head.
Of course there are some parts I still agree
with, I would still put into verse today.
But it's the differences stand out to me.
That I was so naive causes dismay
and forces me to face the question, "How
was I so wrong, I could those thoughts display?"
What's worse, I know I'm not much better now.
Indeed, it's not just words from years gone by;
there are quite recent poems I disavow,
and with a question much the same: "Oh why
did I let thoughts like this pollute
my mind when they are something I deny?"
Perhaps it would be better I were mute
and not of these vicissitudes aware,
at least not going over each minute
word, line or phrase so that I can compare
what I thought then and I think now, or in
the future yet may think. A new despair
comes with the thought of that. I can't begin
to wonder how my writings now will seem
to me when I have changed again. Within
all of this cringing, can I find a theme?
Perhaps it is a blessing, not a curse
to know one's mind can change, that one extreme
is not all I will know. The more diverse
the better, that's how balance best is sought.
I'll celebrate the changes in my verse,
for life is change, or so I have been taught,
as is all else, so why not also thought.
no subject
that now's as good a time to write again
some meta thoughts on thoughts that from my brain
sprung years ago. But well, I must confess
I like them. Every rhyme and each word stress
in this here poem links nicely in a chain.
The poems make the walk down mem'ry lane
an easy stroll; a pleasure to process.
And fondly gazing back on thoughts that rhyme
-- on notions slightly twisted, bent for art --
Brings smiles. But last night when I read a page
more raw, a diary entry from a time
when anguish carved out pieces of my heart --
Less fun. Those weren't produced to put on stage.