In the many books

that I like, I never read --


anything that's new.

You love the boy I let you find,
But he is made, not born, in mind
A crafted mask, a practiced art,
A ghost of self, a split apart

He smiles on cue, he speaks with grace,
But he is only in my place
An echo dressed in borrowed light,
A shadow playing at being right

Yet still you love this polished shell,
The tale I spin, the dream I sell
But if you saw what lies beneath,
Would kindness turn to ash and grief?

If truth uncoiled from under skin,
Would love collapse from where it’s been?
Would you still look me in the eye,
If I told you this “me” was a lie?

You’ve hurt me more than you may know,
But still, I’d never strike a blow
I took your pain, I wore your shame,
Yet dream of flames I cannot name

For what I dream to do, to say,
Would wash your peace like stars away
A wave no surfer’s strength could bear,
You’d drown in tears, stripped raw and bare

You cry at oceans—I at stars,
At nebulae and bleeding scars
Your grief is deep, but not like mine,
I’ve swallowed time, and called it fine

I am not Earth, nor built for ease,
Not shaped by gardens, sun, or trees
I am a moon of Saturn’s brood,
Born of ash and solitude

Among her moons, I spin and burn,
While others freeze and never yearn
They orbit close with silent pride,
I flare with longing none can hide

I am the ember in her ice,
A misfit fire in rings precise
I circle like the rest must do,
But always dream of something new

My gaze is fixed beyond her light,
To Earth’s pale moon in endless night
That single sphere in velvet black,
Whose face reflects the love I lack

I ache to break this orbit’s bind,
To find a home more like my mind
I gaze toward Earth, where one moon glows,
Faint and familiar, through the cosmos it shows

For if I left this frigid ring,
What would my solemn Saturn think?
If I, the ember in her shade,
Defied the path tradition made?

Would Saturn weep, or would she rage?
Would guilt confine me to this cage?
Or would she sigh, and let me fly—
To chase the moon that caught my eye?

A wave is a wave,
Like a particle is a particle.
A ripple,
A droplet.

Language is not important,
For all concepts are constants.

That is,
The truly objective
And not what is perspective.
That's science!
It's fun,
You'll love it.
You live it!

What I'm saying is
That language & languages change,
The nature of any one given
And those which are still spoken.

Other such things?
They fall apart,
They collapse into dust.
Returning from whence they came.

Paper degrades, wood burns,
Clay crumbles, stone erodes -
What is it? That always which continues?
Such things as the voice of truth & of logic.

As long as there are those who speak it,
As long as there are those
Who are both willing & capable.
All of which any may choose to learn.

History shows,
Only fools don't learn it.
Wisdom knows,
Only the wise really keep it.

So many ways to reduce it!
So many ways to expand upon it!
It's all about knowing!
It's all about sharing!

why does my happily ever after...
need a Prince Charming,
is it really that alarming,
that I don't want an Adam, a Phillip, or even a Ferdinand,
none of my aspirations are that grand,
neither do I care for an Eric or Aladdin,
these suggestions only serve to make further madden,
why can't I be a Merida or a Raya,
an Elsa, a Moana, a Mulan without a sigh of,
'she doesn't know what she's talking about',
'leave her alone, she'll back out,'
back out of what? this pity party idea,
that I need to capture someone else's philia,
I am not disillusioned when I say,
I don't give a **** about that in any way.

Pitter Patter, Pitter Patter
Man’s cries, children's laughter
Leaving home, an infinite daughter
Maybe if I cared more, loved harder
If they didn't leave me, my mind altered
Then I wouldn't be here, a complete disaster
Crumbling like weak plaster

I am here after all
Waiting for that morning call
Worrying about a forever fall
Did I even have the gall?
To throw that curve-ball?
I’d never felt so small
Though I won't let it be my downfall
I'll come back again like rainfall

I am not who I was
I applied the gauze
Even though I was the cause
I never broke our laws
They sank into my, their razor-sharp claws
Straight to the bone, they gnawed
Then, suddenly, they paused
Started with their slow applause
A joke of the court, I was

So I told them no
They packed in their big show
Set off with precious cargo
All they were was fake snow.

Tolling hungrily the hollow bell
High in pious belfry hung.

Lofty words as pride dictates
From deep in cavernous dwellings
To keep a doctrine as one
Keeps hope of the future
Locked in a chest --
The ritual of past and present notions.

Receding line at edge of seaboard
Feeding on dry land the watery grave
Filled with borrowed sentiments adrift.
The open sea -- open sores of prejudice

Cut off from inlets of vision and reason.
Preserved as Lenin's body under glass.

Have we given up, is it just traders,
Driving the rest of us, in their bus today,
The appreciation of our country, the building blocks,
From our countries past, will be lost, plans in motion now,
No more teaching history class.
It’s sad, at least to me, there are legal age people,
Grown raised in America, that, do not know, and understand,
The reason behind, the Thanksgiving Holiday, although,
When the Holiday is over, the talk of the town, will be,
What the taxi service charged, to bring that big spread to me.
Wow, it’s gone to that, from planning, recipes, a day and a half cooking,
The ladies, teaching their daughters, tricks of the trade, to pass to,
Their children, yes hundreds of years, celebrating Thanksgiving Holiday.
In the beginning, neighbors, families, joined and shared, a big feast,
The men, their sons, hunted all year for meat, planted gardens,
Brought wood inside for heat, and to cook. What happened? It’s gone to,
Every family, in their own home, many do not know, their neighbors,
The Pilgrims & Indians, even shared the first Thanksgiving together.
This one is up to the adults, to keep Thanksgiving a meaningful tradition.
The schools seem to be out of the, patriotism, and religious,
Teachings, exactly what kept this country together, and strong.
In this life, all we leave, are memories for others,
Some of the best, are made and remembered from Holidays.
(Just a reminder, it’s not polite to say Grace, while looking at your phone.)
                                                         ­                                                               
          The Original: Tom Maxwell © 09/28/2024 AD

Edgar Allan Poe
Never wrote a poem about a crow,
But he did write a poem about a misbehavin'
Raven.