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Philosophers are adults who persist in asking childish questions.

quote by Isaiah Berlin
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Always Asking Questions

We all want peace we dont want misery
So many of us wont let us be these things
But we only are confused
We feel stronger as we grow older
But still we feel bemused
Always asking questions
Were always asking questions
And the temptation is to just step back
Well we give what we lack
We will always be asking questions
Why rich?
Why poor?
Always asking questions
Were always asking questions
Why this?
Why that?
Were always asking questions
Why this?
Why that?
Always asking
Dont stop asking
Dont stop asking questions
Always asking questions
In answer to this question is just shut up
You dont know
I dont know
Nobody knows
This is an answer to every question
This is a place to begin
Always asking questions
Always asking questions
Why this?
Why that?
Why this?
Why that?
Always asking questions
(why this why that? )
Always asking questions
(why this why that? )
Always asking questions
(why this why that? )
Words: william bryant
Music: howard jones

song performed by Howard Jones
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Sonnet: Adults

Adults are selfish beings of the earth;
Adults don’t forgive/ forget tho’ mature;
Adults are creatures adamant by birth;
Adults are jealous beings, by nature.

Adults have arguing tongues till the end;
Adults misunderstand others with ease;
Adults can neither condescend nor bend;
Adults cannot adjust with/others please.

Adults are sinful in thought, word and deed
Adults are the ones, misguiding the youth;
Adults are beings revengeful indeed;
Adults can speak effortlessly untruth.

Adults advise but remember old fights;
Adults cannot give up their insane rights!

6-1-2001

poem by John Celes
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If Children Ruled The World

If Children Ruled The World,
Parents, Adults and Teachers will go to bed at 8: 00
and wake up at 7: 00 to dress up for school.
At school children will treat them like nothing,
and Parents, Adults and Teachers will have nothing to do or say.
In the morning at school, they would have to line up like chrildrens used to do like every single mornings.

If Children Ruled The World,
Lollies will be for everyone even adults and parents.
Parents and Adults will have such awful rotten teeth just like all children used to have in their teeths.
Every mornings right after adults brushes their teeths or hairs, the children would have to check if their hairs and teeths are alright.
In School Trips children goes for free but the adults has to always pay.

If Children Ruled The World,
the world wou; d be treated badly.
The children would be rich and adults would be poor and always ask for children for some money.
There will be no clean water,
No food for the adults to eat except lollies.

If Children Ruled The World,
WE'LL ALL BE IN A JAM!

poem by Crystal Pongi
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Why

(michael cretu)
.
I was childish and unfair
To you, my only friend
I regret, but now it's too late
.
I can't show you any more
The things i've learned from you
Cause life just took you away
.
I'm asking why
I'm asking why
Nobody gives an answer
I'm just asking why
.
But someday we'll meet again
And i'll ask you
.
I'll ask you why
Why it has to be like this
I'm asking you why
Please give me an answer
.
Many years and stupid fights
Till we accept to see
How it was and it'll always be
.
Why it has to be like this
Why we don't realize
Why we're too blind to see the one
Who's always on our side
.
I'm asking why
I'm asking why
Nobody gives an answer
I'm just asking why
.
Just tell me why
Why it has to be like this
That the good ones disappear
I'm asking you why
.
I'm asking why
I'm asking why
Nobody gives an answer
I'm just asking why
.
I'm asking why

song performed by Enigma
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To Agitate A Childish Game

Sometimes I am tempted,
To agitate a childish game...
That has been played.
Just to feel and see it done...
To throw it back in someone's face.

But games played like that,
Have long passed their attraction.
Although so many are caught up in them...
With an immaturity that seeks as shown,
An act played like that would offer a satisfaction.

Sometimes I am tempted,
To agitate a childish game...
That has been played.
Just to feel and see it done...
To throw it back in someone's face.

And everyday I witness,
Immature adults with childish minds.
Complaining to others about who they don't like.
With a waste of time whining,
Hoping to 'hook up' with a like mind.

Everyday I seem to witness,
More children who should be adults.
More who have not discovered responsibility.
Or an accountability that brings to them concrete results.

And everyday I witness,
Immature adults with childish minds.
Complaining to others about who they don't like.
With a waste of time whining,
Hoping to 'hook up' with a like mind.

Sometimes I am tempted,
To agitate a childish game...
That has been played.
Just to feel and see it done...
To throw it back in someone's face.

But games played like that,
Have long passed their attraction.
Although so many are caught up in them...
With an immaturity that seeks as shown,
An act played like that would offer a satisfaction.

And as I pass such activities,
I feel blessed to have aged gracefully.
Although I grit my teeth...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Philosophers Stone

Out on the highways and the by-ways all alone
Im still searching for, searching for my home
Up in the morning, up in the morning out on the road
And my head is aching and my hands are cold
And Im looking for the silver lining, silver lining in the clouds
And Im searching for and
Im searching for the philosophers stone
And its a hard road, its a hard road daddy-o
When my job is turning lead into gold
He was born in the back street, born in the back street jelly roll
Im on the road again and Im searching for
The philosophers stone
Can you hear that engine
Woe can you hear that engine drone
Well Im on the road again and Im searching for
Searching for the philosophers stone
Up in the morning, up in the morning
When the streets are white with snow
Its a hard road, its a hard road daddy-o
Up in the morning, up in the morning
Out on the job
Well youve got me searching for
Searching for, the philosophers stone
Even my best friends, even my best friends they dont know
That my job is turning lead into gold
When you hear that engine, when you hear that engine drone
Im on the road again and Im searching for the philosophers stone
Its a hard road even my best friends they dont know
And Im searching for, searching for the philosophers stone

song performed by Van Morrison
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Scar

Im not
Crawling around
Looking for a friend.
Im not
Thinking the big I am.
Im not
Down on the ground
Looking for a cure.
Im not
Saying that Im the man.
And Im not asking for your opinion.
Im not asking for a miracle.
And Im not asking you to remember me,
Not asking for the ghost to call.
Im
Cold and corrupt
Looking for a heart.
Im
Trying to hide my scars.
Im
Talking to you
Like a shadow in the dark.
Im
Just trying to survive.
(call my name, hide my shame)
I call this human emotion.
(save my soul, save my soul)
I call this human corrosion.
And Im not asking you for emotion,
Im not asking for the sky to mend.
And Im not asking you for nostalgia,
Im not asking for the world to end.
And Im not asking for your opinion,
Im not asking for a miracle.
And Im not asking you to remember me,
Not asking for the ghost to call.

song performed by Gary Numan
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Complementary viewpoints for friend Chandra

Philosophy and poetry
are not completely different.
Each represents a way to see
What is not always evident.

Philosophers and poets try
to understand the universe.
The answers which they can supply.
Expressed in turgid prose or verse.

Philosophers can be abstruse
and difficult to understand
Because of how they phrase their views.
I don’t dismiss them out of hand.

I much prefer the poets verse
To endless reams of complex prose.
I do not think I am perverse
Simplicity I must suppose.

Is really what appeals to me.
the poets seek to entertain
and yet express with clarity.
Philosophers try to explain.

Their reasoning in great detail.
They just succeed in boring me
Their efforts are to no avail
I will admit quite openly

I simply cannot spare the time
To plough through densely written prose.
But I find poetry sublime
I like the way it ebbs and flows.

The insight that a poet shows
can entertain and educate.
Philosophers try to impose
their views, discouraging debate.

Which does not sit too well with me.
Folks can’t stand being patronised
and will rebel instinctively.
A fact that poets recognise.

They are content to share their thoughts.
With anyone who chooses to
read the verses they have wrought.
Which may express a different view

[...] Read more

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Asking For It

Everytime that I sell myself to you
I feel a little bit cheaper than I need to
I wiil tear the petals off of you
Rose-red, I will make you tell the truth
Was she asking for it?
Was she asking nice?
Yeah, she was asking for it
Did she ask you twice?
Everytime that I stare into the sun
Angel dust and my dress just comes undone
Everytime that I stare into the sun
Be a model or just look like one
Well Ill rock it to the end
Do you think you can make me do it again?
Was she asking for it?
Was she asking nice?
Yeah, she was asking for it
Did she ask you twice?
If you live through this with me, I swear that I will die for you
And if you live through this with me, I swear that I will die for you
Was she asking for it?
Was she asking nice?
Yeah, she was asking for it
Did she ask you twice?

song performed by Hole
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Tirocinium; or, a Review of Schools

It is not from his form, in which we trace
Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace,
That man, the master of this globe, derives
His right of empire over all that lives.
That form, indeed, the associate of a mind
Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind,
That form, the labour of Almighty skill,
Framed for the service of a freeborn will,
Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control,
But borrows all its grandeur from the soul.
Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne,
An intellectual kingdom, all her own.
For her the memory fills her ample page
With truths pour’d down from every distant age;
For her amasses an unbounded store,
The wisdom of great nations, now no more;
Though laden, not encumber’d with her spoil;
Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil;
When copiously supplied, then most enlarged;
Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged.
For her the Fancy, roving unconfined,
The present muse of every pensive mind,
Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue
To Nature’s scenes than Nature ever knew.
At her command winds rise and waters roar,
Again she lays them slumbering on the shore;
With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies,
Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise.
For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife
That Grace and Nature have to wage through life,
Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill,
Appointed sage preceptor to the Will,
Condemns, approves, and, with a faithful voice,
Guides the decision of a doubtful choice.
Why did the fiat of a God give birth
To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth?
And, when descending he resigns the skies,
Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise,
Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves,
And owns her power on every shore he laves?
Why do the seasons still enrich the year,
Fruitful and young as in their first career?
Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,
Rock’d in the cradle of the western breeze:
Summer in haste the thriving charge receives
Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves,
Till Autumn’s fiercer heats and plenteous dews
Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.—
‘Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste,
Power misemploy’d, munificence misplaced,

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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The Old-Home Folks

Such was the Child-World of the long-ago--
The little world these children used to know:--
Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,
Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps
Inhabiting this wee world all their own.--
Johnty, the leader, with his native tone
Of grave command--a general on parade
Whose each punctilious order was obeyed
By his proud followers.

But Johnty yet--
After all serious duties--could forget
The gravity of life to the extent,
At times, of kindling much astonishment
About him: With a quick, observant eye,
And mind and memory, he could supply
The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;
And at the most unlooked-for times on earth
Was wont to break into some travesty
On those around him--feats of mimicry
Of this one's trick of gesture--that one's walk--
Or this one's laugh--or that one's funny talk,--
The way 'the watermelon-man' would try
His humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;--
How he drove into town at morning--then
At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.

Though these divertisements of Johnty's were
Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there
Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret--
A spirit of remorse that would not let
Him rest for days thereafter.--Such times he,
As some boy said, 'jist got too overly
Blame good fer common boys like us, you know,
To '_so_ciate with--less'n we 'ud go
And jine his church!'

Next after Johnty came
His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.--
And O how white his hair was--and how thick
His face with freckles,--and his ears, how quick
And curious and intrusive!--And how pale
The blue of his big eyes;--and how a tale
Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still
Bigger and bigger!--and when 'Jack' would kill
The old 'Four-headed Giant,' Bud's big eyes
Were swollen truly into giant-size.
And Bud was apt in make-believes--would hear
His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear
And memory of both subject and big words,

[...] Read more

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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I remember, I remember - Past and Present after Thomas Hood and William Wordsworth - Lucy

I remember, I remember
the house where I was born
before foreclosure took away
the homestead I had sworn
in good faith, all attest 'tis true,
to leave grandchildren three: -
times change, leave little rest, I rue
that difference to me!

It seems so very long ago
the liberating Yanks
found welcome everywhere they'd go -
though some were pita swanks,
but since the Shah announced 'I ran'
our bearings all at sea
became - time reeled again would ban
all difference for me!

I remember, I remember
the sun porch, now in pawn,
proud flag a flying red, white, blue,
which now hangs so forlorn
Sun, moon spun round each priceless day,
or so I seemed to see,
four bucks a gallon gas I pay -
what difference to me!

My mind thought then nostalgic ease
eternally could last,
all my desires, priorities
seemed sated very fast,
The fever on my brow shoots higher
now Sheiks of Araby,
up ante for crude imports, tire -
what difference to me!

I remember, I remember
before Alaskan oil
had spilled upon once pristine shore,
polluting fauna, soil.
With climate change I'm feeling sore,
note each commodity
continues rising more and more -
what difference to me!

Back then I'd travel aimlessly,
cared not I ran Iraq,
from dawn till dark, from sea to sea
could, rising with the lark,
ignore the cost of gasoline

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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I Wanna Know (The Pit And The Pendulum)

Under the intense scrutiny of Ligeia's eyes
I have felt the full knowledge
And force of their expression
And yet been unable to possess it
And have felt it leave me
As so many other things have left
The letter half-read
The bottle half-drunk
Finding
Finding in the commonest objects of the universe
A circle of analogies
Of metaphors
Ooohhh
For that expression
Which has been willfully
withheld from me
The access to the inner soul denied
I wanna know, ooohhh
I wanna know
I wanna know, oh
I wanna know
In consideration
In consideration of the faculties and impulses
Of the human soul
Of the human soul
In consideration
Of our arrogance
Of our arrogance
Our radical, primitive irreducible arrogance of reason
We have all overlooked the propensity
We saw no need for it
The paradoxical something which we may call perverseness
Perverseness
Through its promptings we act without
Comprehensible object
We act for the reason we should not
We act for the reason we should not
For certain minds this is absolutely irre-, irre-
irresistible
irresistible
The conviction of the wrong
Or impolicy of an action
Is often the unconquerable force
The unconquerable force
It is a primitive impulse
It is a primitive impulse
Primitive impulse
The overwhelming tendency
The overwhelming tendency to do
Wrong for the wrong's sake

[...] Read more

song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Boatman's Crossing!

The boatman is out, crossing the swollen river,
Dips the bamboo staff, churns the frowning waters,
Calling for strength from the still depths, he moves on,
Like children running behind a cart, waves giggle along.
The river asks no questions.

Dark for lies shrouded in curtains of inky black,
Moon just a strained smile, is seized by the clouds crack,
Lovelorn silver edges aglow, puff in pride on the conquest,
Homesick, signaling to each other, stars join in the jest.
The night asks no questions.

Yet to startle darkness, the weakest hour of morn,
Pushing this log of wood, is yet to be born,
Thick as honey, wind flutters leaves in bouts of rage,
Dripping with the scent of hill balsams and lush foliage.
The wind asks no questions.

Heaving branches of blossoms and figs, offer themselves,
In homage to the river, on either banks banyan trees swagger,
Dipping their flowing roots, like an old woman’s tress,
Bait fish; like one throws pebbles in water seeking answers,
The trees ask no questions.

This, a strange journey he makes in the quiet of the morn,
Questions arise in his head, like on the banks- the wayside corn,
To lull them sings, a wailing tune, like in wilderness richotteing nails,
His mother sang, to stall his questions after
her bed-timetales.
The boatman asks no questions.

As they sail by, birds sent aflutter, snigger, trees jeer,
A startled stork from the far-off horizon hollers-All clear,
Drawn by his song, in his trailing nets fishes ensnare,
Like a maiden in panic, the river hastens, after a night’s dare.
The birds ask no questions.

Dawn breaks its garland of flushing colors galore,
A veiled maiden sits at the boat’s far-end, shadows devour
Head bowed, eyes downcast, break not her silence of the night,
Lest she should dropp off like an unopened bud at first light.

poem by Seema joglekar
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Youre Gonna Get Whats Coming

(robert palmer)
You came up on me like a landslide
Once in awhile I get taken like that
And I like it
Ive got a thunderbird parked right outside
Give me a minute to finish this thing
And well light it.
In all this heat its a job keeping cool
Oh yeah
And I could fry an egg on you
You came up on me like a landslide
Once in awhile I get taken like that
And I like it
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youve been asking for it two days running
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youre gonna get whats coming to you
I hope that youre half as intrepid
As you make out
More often than not, Ill bet
You never got what you asked for
Keep on pouring until you hear me shout
And turn up the sound
If you want me to drive any faster
Caution went out when you walked in the room
If it never came back it would be too soon
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youve been asking for it two days running
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youre gonna get whats coming to you
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youve been asking for it two days running
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youre gonna get whats coming to you
You came up on me like a landslide
Once in awhile I get taken like that
And I like it
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youve been asking for it two days running
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youre gonna get whats coming to you
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youve been asking for it two days running
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youre gonna get whats coming to you
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youve been asking for it two days running
Youre gonna get whats coming
Youre gonna get whats coming to you
Youre gonna get whats coming

[...] Read more

song performed by Robert Palmer
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Your Face Among Many, A Blossom

Your face among many, a blossom.
Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
The sun can't understand why it can't
open the buds of the parking meters.
Some people worry they don't have talent.
Given a name, who isn't a masterpiece?
A perfect self-portrait of what they're becoming?
Talent, the worst superstition of all.
That lullaby you sing to your voodoo doll
at bedtime, to let her know she's special
when, in fact, she's blind. Talent.
That estranged mix of an eclipse and an oilslick
that isn't sure of its standing in life.
Sensible shoes wishing they had wings on their heels.
The redundant navigator of mountain streams
that would have found their own way to the river
all by themselves. You ask if I think you have talent.
To me that's like a flower asking
if I think it will ever come to bloom,
a star wondering if it's shining or not,
a sea uncertain of its own waves and weather.
And I say, your eyes do, your ears do, your mouth has,
these birch-trees, those starlings, that tree, those rocks,
these rags of last year's flowers do, but not you.
On the day of creation when God exhausted herself
using up the leftovers of her inspiration
so as not to let anything go to waste, she pinched the noses
of a few sacred clowns and instead of
breathing life into their lungs, she opened their throats
and poured a special esoteric elixir of talent,
the mother of all oceanic love potions
that ever played favourites with a select few
among everyone she'd ever given birth to,
out of her mouth into theirs, such that like her
all they had to do, they were so talented,
was give the word. Say be. And it was.
Because the moment you ask if you have something,
you've already lost it. Like space or time or mind,
talent isn't possessed. It's made manifest spontaneously.
Do you see the ruby throated hummingbirds
in a last duel with the thorns
of the locust trees in blossom,
one drawing blood, the other, first honey?
Behind every river making its way to the sea
stands the cornerstone of a mountain
buried under an avalanche
it brought down upon itself
like the winter solstice
between the dolmens of Stonehenge,
just as every dropp of water is a lost key,

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Dreams, Dreams, Dreams

Most children want to copy adults fast;
They try to dress and talk and walk like one;
They want to do the things what adults do;
But children can’t be adults before time!

Adults dream of their childhood years at times;
They cannot move or speak or walk child-like;
They cannot be innocent like children;
They can’t become children again in life.

The elderly have dreams of their own too;
Oh, how they wish they were younger in age!
They recollect the things they did when young;
Their frames and minds are weaker than they think!

All human beings live in dreams galore;
Most dreams cannot become reality;
Our dreams must be something we can well do;
Too much of dreams don’t help to dash ahead.

Each stage of life can be lived only once;
One cannot go back or ahead in time;
Be happy with whatever you’ve achieved;
Life is so wonderful they way it is!

Just keep your mind and heart as per your age;
Be aware of the limits, risks, you take;
Life shouldn’t be lost even through accidents;
Life is the greatest gift of God to you!

Thank God for whatever you are in life;
Thank Him for gift of human life and soul;
Thank Him for all the things, He’d done for you;
Thank Him for all His love and kindness shown!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 10-12-2008

poem by John Celes
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Children

Wonder, children wonder, but it seems that from an early age it is knocked out of them. Conformity overrides possibilities and even reality slowly starts to ascend in their mind as they are processed through the systems, in fact conformity becomes reality. No wonder that wonder slowly and then completely looses its place. Children's freedom to see new possibilities, to invent knew worlds, knew universes is increasingly viewed with suspicion as they age. Even more devastating to the processes of wonder, is the self righteous way we as adults invalidate children's seemingly preternatural ability to know where adults are coming from, to even punish children because they see and say that the emperor has no clothes on. Their natural ability to know others emotional states and to sense when adults are imposing their darkness upon them and others is far superior to our own in many or most ways; until we force them to see through are own adult processed perception. We would be wise to learn from them instead of trying to control them. The experience should be two ways. This is the best way to keep wonder alive while teaching children to understand them self and the world around them. This takes courage for us adults.

As we know, children do not know their place, they are adept at seeing through adult pretenses, masks, false identities, roles, games, hypocrisy, we are so busy shoving our own way of processing the world down their throats that we forget to wonder with them, to be with them. We become fearful of seeing things through their eyes, through the eyes of the child we once were. Darwin, Einstein, both were precocious, slow very slow in their maturity and unable and unwilling to conform, they such as so many other had a prolonged childhood, and a lasting child like way about them, the wondered.

poem by Michael Kavuoti
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Oh!

We met as two consenting adults in some
Busy, crowded malls, and we offered our true names,
We like each other, we love the way we talk
It was easy, we are two consenting adults and we
Met again somewhere, not in the crowded mall
Not in the busy street, not in the church to pray,
We are lovers, we are two consenting adults,
We are the new lovers, and we know what is the
Secrecy of love its sanctity when we as consenting adults
Met again, and we are naked,
We have embraced ourselves as truths not as lies
In the open
In our openness, we swallowed ourselves in utter openness
We welcome what happened
We said it was wonderful we want to meet again and feel
So wonderful
We have the will, we have the free will, we are free

Then you said something while you were alone and distant
Yes it was wonderful but it was when I lost my senses,
You chided me, you were lost when we did something wonderful
And you said it was something dirty, you have indulged in the
Arms of the wrong person, in the wrong hours, in the wrong places,
You even vomited what wonderful was it that was swallowed

By you as a consenting adult, and I as a consenting adult
I thought it is wonderful and I always
Think it is wonderful, I do not know what dirty is
I was not raised in dirt, I do not know dirt, I am not dirty

Days and days, you reflected upon its wonder, the wonder of what we did and you call me back, you emailed, you texted

You like to meet me again in some crowded malls, in some busy streets we start all over again to trace the maze of amazement again
You offer your true name again, your senses in full you smile
You are a traffic sign blinking the green for go again

The wrong person is here, he is now lost in his senses too,
You called the wrong number, you emailed the wrong mails,
You texted the wrong number, you will be calling the wrong person

That wrong person has gone away, he is the wrong person to your
Thousand eyes and he has no more reason left to stay. He cannot wait for you, the malls are crowded, the streets are busy, and the door of
The house is now closed. And he is now the traffic sign which blinks
The red for stop.

There is no one to be blamed, It is our upbringing that brings

the end.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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Moonyeen

frail lady Emily Dickenson
That is moonyeen
the girl of the night of chat
the student of the law website
asking questions
about some directions
what to do with her life
where to go
why
she is asking why
she is asking me why
i am making all things hard for her
as i threw questions of law and facts from a pile of law books

while i keep on writing my poetry and enjoying every situation
she has to read her
political law
her constitutional law with utmost logical objectivity

she is asking why i have made life hard and harsh for her
why i am cold and damp setting high standards on her legal studies
as i enjoy my craft of writing poems everyday

for days she is sad and would not chat
she shuts herself to all her difficult questions
while i
have sweet conversations with myself

i know her predicament though
she burns her candles with the law

while i sit peacefully under the cool shades of the trees
reciting all these love of life this zest for living

on the other hand moonyeen had to study her law
submit to the definitions of justice and equity

i have had all of that unjust stuff for years those dusty law years
and they serve no other purpose but for me to earn my living
to support my poetry and my love for this silly stuff
nonetheless makes me fully human fully alive!
these poetry which at the end will render
a disposition

who ever told you that life is fair?
whoever told you in the name of all our laws that life is fair?

that is the question assigned for moonyeen not just for this semester
but for the whole span of her lifetime

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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