Wednesday, October 29, 2008

THE RECORD PLAYER

A tale by an idiot…
so Shakespeare thought.

Each generation introduces the next,
making contribution and gross folly
to the great upstream dance.
The argument already made…

Do we march proudly,
into the annals of history en masse?
…or does the daily drudge,
constantly relegating poignancy to purpose,
make rot of any tangible meaning
long before
our bones are returned
into that primordial dust?

The days yawn as though,
like some great gaping chasm,
they tempt onward;
spurring our Galileo quest,
never quite fulfilled,
a more refined and deeper purpose
- absent.

We amuse ourselves in endless contemplation,
penning ballads and odes,
warbling half celebrated dirges and sonnets;
disentangled vainglorious attempts,
plunged deep and heartily
into that wounded immensity
of mysteries beyond,

…only too late to recognize
we are fast becoming that next waning filament
unraveled by the vast -
our inconceivable tapestry of life.

@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

3 Comments:

Blogger Masago said...

Well done! (...when realized, too late to do anything?...)

7:27 PM  
Blogger Rhiannon said...

This poem is all oh so true..I love your writing...it's like "intellectual passion" with a kick!

Blessings,

Rhi

3:46 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

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3:33 PM  

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