''Folly''
Plucked From Dreams
Poems by K. Scott Smith
1).
Bursts of Sun,
the constant meeting of horizons-
Plucked from dreams
and planted.
Each whim was granted,
where the dizzy heights commanded
all to throw themselves into the sea.
2),
March appears in triumphant splendor
Ten Thousand colors wide.
Once, the river did give wise council
and compose odes to the night-
Trading your wits for surprises
making and keeping balances
that once would have driven you mad.
3).
To come of age
again and again.
The art of releasing
and of becoming,
of rebellion and self rule
exiles return baring borrowed(barbarous) gifts
4).
Sure of lust
and certain bounds and bindings,
Cruel critics, wanton publishers,
keeping score, losing count.
Free agent.
Gaining ground
and losing ground.
5).
Tiny secret lives lived in the rain
Strong winds we give names to.
Sturdy keepers of Courage,
of Honor and Virtue.
The last book and a new pen,
looks up through long disheveled hair,
that hangs over his long brow.
The wind and the rum and the summer rains
swept across an open plain,
as wide as his heart.
6).
The increasing of days-
February lurches,
a condemned man allowed to live one more day,
a few hours more.
7).
I feel as thin as a sheet hung on a metal wire,
a fool to trust even gravity...
Men of Science- Show yourselves!
Do not hide behind numbers.
I have come to challenge you,
I call you out!
Fools and poets dream
and die in drunken streets,
with poems and wine upon their lips.
8).
I hold in my hands a book 100 years old.
Plutarch, Herodotus, Cesar, Sir Thomas Moore,
The beautiful collections
of flowering words,
set down in fine and regal print.
The conclusions of and age.
9)
A fountain bursts
up towards the sky
Winged creature gather in loose patters.
I will construct wings of words,
of will,
and of seemingly well made,
and well meaning gestures.
Bold face ''truths''
that will recede,
and can, in time, become lies.
10).
A strange weeks end
looking back I saw ancient Troy
and a hundred thousand threads
passing as jest,
forever failing each test.
Everything carries oblivion at arms length
every transient fervor given to rains
only to be summoned again.
The virtue of certain vices,
and strange devices
hung like thieves for all to see
where once Golden flowers sang.
1).
Bursts of Sun,
the constant meeting of horizons-
Plucked from dreams
and planted.
Each whim was granted,
where the dizzy heights commanded
all to throw themselves into the sea.
2),
March appears in triumphant splendor
Ten Thousand colors wide.
Once, the river did give wise council
and compose odes to the night-
Trading your wits for surprises
making and keeping balances
that once would have driven you mad.
3).
To come of age
again and again.
The art of releasing
and of becoming,
of rebellion and self rule
exiles return baring borrowed(barbarous) gifts
4).
Sure of lust
and certain bounds and bindings,
Cruel critics, wanton publishers,
keeping score, losing count.
Free agent.
Gaining ground
and losing ground.
5).
Tiny secret lives lived in the rain
Strong winds we give names to.
Sturdy keepers of Courage,
of Honor and Virtue.
The last book and a new pen,
looks up through long disheveled hair,
that hangs over his long brow.
The wind and the rum and the summer rains
swept across an open plain,
as wide as his heart.
6).
The increasing of days-
February lurches,
a condemned man allowed to live one more day,
a few hours more.
7).
I feel as thin as a sheet hung on a metal wire,
a fool to trust even gravity...
Men of Science- Show yourselves!
Do not hide behind numbers.
I have come to challenge you,
I call you out!
Fools and poets dream
and die in drunken streets,
with poems and wine upon their lips.
8).
I hold in my hands a book 100 years old.
Plutarch, Herodotus, Cesar, Sir Thomas Moore,
The beautiful collections
of flowering words,
set down in fine and regal print.
The conclusions of and age.
9)
A fountain bursts
up towards the sky
Winged creature gather in loose patters.
I will construct wings of words,
of will,
and of seemingly well made,
and well meaning gestures.
Bold face ''truths''
that will recede,
and can, in time, become lies.
10).
A strange weeks end
looking back I saw ancient Troy
and a hundred thousand threads
passing as jest,
forever failing each test.
Everything carries oblivion at arms length
every transient fervor given to rains
only to be summoned again.
The virtue of certain vices,
and strange devices
hung like thieves for all to see
where once Golden flowers sang.
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
Plucked From Dreams
Plucked From Dreams
