I am a piano player by nature and recently am taken with the idea of writing poetry as if playing piano. In my case that means thematic improvisation where most of the playing is exploration of the theme and every so often an interesting passage arises and I riff till it passes. This all came about from an intense conversation after which I could hardly keep up with the thoughts and wrote and wrote. In retrospect it seemed quite like how I often played piano to process emotion. With poetry, however, there is need to formulate thought which is helpful. Though I think I prefer the more physical nature of piano, both together seems a matching pair. This only makes sense considering most music being melody and lyric. The long poems that I have posted recently are written in this style. In bold are the more poignant passages and the titles have a “No.x” as if they are a classical composition. Some day I would like to post some piano pieces, too. Until then.
If I am to go on this world in suffering and pain, should I make it worthwhile? Is it better to make the suffering worthwhile? Do I get brownie points because I did good and was good? I can not feel good, but that is only one of three. I can glorify the spirit in my suffering. Can I really only choose to choose? Would it make any difference to know? To know that I am doing good and that is good? Why care whether I made the right choice? If I choose to go on living, should I also choose to do something more with that life. If I despise this suffering, then would it not make sense to make effort to help others to understand suffering as others have done for me? Does it matter to help other people.
And if I have made the right decision,
Then I have made the right decision.
And if I have made the wrong decision,
Then I have made the wrong decision.
Yellow nails, another symptom of sickness
Not enough sun, need more vegetables
Oh no, oh no, oh no no no
No, just tumeric loose in the pocket.
The sunset cares not what resides in me:
Offering purple and pink to the thick
Thin of you
No matter the herds of goats in us
For free it gives to we.
Paintings on this wall are hung square,
Though life is not so—
So I skewed them crooked