Ah, these damn writers!1989, 1990
They all talk about nature
And how wonderful it is -- how pretty.
The sweet song of the burdock mouse
On its yellow fantail.
The sky with its blue bonnet
Fringed in a lace of fog.
The lyrics of the stream flowing
Eloquent from their pens.
I read this and I'm supposed to feel
The beauty, the flow, the harmony of nature.
I hear it, and like the new age music,
It soothes, but does not move me.
Where is that poet who,
Speaking of his own two feet on the Earth,
Walks me to that place where
I, insensitive and blunt,
Begin to cry.
I am searching
With my pen
For that man.