For Tom

High Hopes

High hopes; of course. The Western spawn of Marx
And Norman Vincent Peale, the poor, myopic bourgeois
Man, who willfully misreads the labels on the gifts
Of privilege to be rewards for jobs well done,
Approached these weeks of convalescence as
An opportunity to float beyond the gravity of time
Into the realm of unencumbered creativity.
The greatest poem yet unwritten would be
Written now, I thought..., but no. This realm
Turns out to feature other sorts of obstacles.
The pain, its background chatter, like an
Unwatched televsion set, distracts from
Contemplation of the higher thoughts,
The finer pleasures, which might have made
Up the poem, and that set, when watched,
Erases joy, replaces it with fury, as my fellow
Western spawn, aware, at last, that time
And progress aren't the same, toss Marx
And Peale into the trash, and set to smashing
Others' skulls to resurrect what used to be.
My hopes are dashed. I have to think that
That unwritten poem isn't likely to be
Written now, and, if it is, its deathless
Lines won't issue out of me.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 69 times
Written on 2018-10-06 at 15:46

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josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
My wife is a TV addict. Itís constant intrusion into my thoughts as toxic white noise drives me to the furthest corners of the house for relief. Alas, I donít have your pain following me so I do get some relief. Best of luck, Larry, on your convolesence.