personal phone calls
overheard in coffee shops
served now as poems
sending you a quote
probably not shakespeare’s best
nor as you like it
your faith decision
has bled the life of a child
tis murder most foul
like portia’s caskets
life offers moral choices
gold appeals to most
aunt bea
said
have you
ever noticed
that
what you call
something
alters
our level
of acceptance
a bouquet of weeds
is not
as appealing
as
one of flowers
a lesson
all too soon
forced upon children
and
we certainly
are more supportive
of
freedom fighters
than
terrorists
and
you must admit
national security agency
sounds better
than
secret police
so much
for that
rose by
any other name
thing
as promised a play
a limited engagement
with no curtain calls
copyright cwmartin 2011
a small jar
of stars
sitting idly
on a shelf
once envied
by all
but now
homeless
never again
to adorn
the pages
of future
einsteins
or
little shakespeares
feeling
useless
and
alone
tho crammed
together like
in a city slum
peering out
the glass
upon the world
that cannot recall
the services
once
provided
and
the blood shed
for that
overpriced
latte
the army
issued coat
metal plate
and bolts
in his back
are the only
reminders of
regular meals
he watches
as you approach
and toss
a conscious coin
into the guitar case
then watches you
blend into
the upholstery
of your beemer
did you really
believe
he didn’t see that smirk
the
greater than thou
one
are you so vain
that you believe
you got
where
you are
without the blood
and toil
of others
go ahead
do it again
lip sync
those emotions
and words
there but for
the grace…
scattered
here
and there
like the memories
of the year
are scraps of paper
my
recorded history
stored
for no good reason
in boxes
and drawers
throughout the house
boxes that no one
will ever pullout
to sort or read
to be
carried in mass
to the dump
or shredded
by some distant family member
who seeks their fortune
in what is left behind
in closets
and jewelry boxes
leaving behind
the true wealth
of my life
for they
have long
forgotten
“all that glisters
is not
gold”
The popular form of the expression is a corruption of a line in William Shakespeare‘s play, The Merchant of Venice, which uses the 17th century synonym “glisters”. The line comes from the secondary plot, the puzzle of Portia‘s boxes: (Act II – Scene VII – Prince of Morocco)
Read Between the Minds 