Tuesday, December 07, 2004

So What, Who Cares?

So what who cares, it’s poetry
Not for money, just for glee.

I couldn’t care, no not one bit,
That it doesn’t sound like English lit.

I tried to be smart, I tried to be funny,
But now it’s only even money,
That you will read and I will smile
Ever only after a while,
That I realized something near to me,
It’s not for you but it’s for me,
That I write these things myself express,
To lift my soul up from depress.

I write for me, not you or them
It’s from my heart, my soul, my pen,
And only then, only then,

Can you be privileged to see,
A very special part of me.

You may peak and pry a little,
Into a place you shouldn’t be.
But as you see that part of me,
Then , yes, then, but suddenly
You’ve seen a little piece of thee.

Copyright 2004 David Lawrence III



You’re not supposed to tell, you know
You wish you could, I will not dwell
On consequences sound and true
Of what will be if I tell on you.

Oh but I must I cannot help it
My soul is bursting with the tidbit.
The people they are hungry too,
To get the latest dirt on you.

Oh please, oh, please I pray don’t tell,
About that day down by the well
Or either or the other time,
When we went down
And drank the wine.

Oh yes, O yes, and also too,
About the time Aunt Sally knew
That you and I and little Johnny,
Took daddy’s gun and Momma’s money.

So much to tell that no one knows,
But no one cares until one grows
Famous or important.
God or noble then you’ll see,
Woodworks creak with curiosity.

If you are noble you are free,
To be a nobody you see,
But if you try to be more than that
We’ll shoot you down in a single spat.

Just you stay right where you are,
Harmless, sinful, not a star,
You dare not twinkle from afar.

For we will kill with jealousy,
Anyone who dares to be,
Any better, more or less
Than ourselves - the rest of us.

The few and the many, they had plenty,
Long as the garden grew,
They knew it not, that one dark spot,
Would grow with mold and dew.

Between the fame and fortune sought
And all the single dollars bought
There was a simple balance clear
While we all pay and we all cheer,

That somehow only you should be, on the stage for us to see,
But if you change your mind and then, want to go and take your pen,
To tell a different kind of story, we will send you home to glory.

Don’t be crazy,
Don’t mean maybe,
Wish I could
Knew I would
Always only
Never lonely
No one cares
When you who dares.

Such is my doggerel not pentameter
Unfinished, unpolished,
Not very nice, reflective of my vice
Making rhyme better than crime.

Nobody’s business, no one cares
Not crying wolf, but no one dares

To accept or believe, the truth of the matter
That’s all there is, and it’s not on a platter
Of palpable politics or saleable sandwhich
So off it goes to the editor’s land which
As we all know, goes totally unread
The land of feedback for the dead

Send us your comments we want to know
But what we reveal or what we show
Is all for us, and not for you

Just send the money, not your view

We sell what sells, and sell some more
Until there’s nothing in the store,
But the simplest most for everyone.

What’s left is nothing, under the sun,
Not new, not true, and not important.

The Megacorps can’t tell,
Who is drinking from their well.
The merger, the acquirer, the same you see,
And what you need, it is not free.
You pay, they say, how and when,
If and how much, the choice is yours
As long as they’re selling it off the floors.

Free choice, yes, buy whatever you like
As long as the others want it too
Otherwise, too bad for you.

Majority rules, minority loses,
Not race or color the important chooses
No, no far more important it is
But no one can tell it like it is

Because they don’t know, it’s not on the news,
Because it conflicts, with corporate views.

The little guy maybe, we like him a little,
We’ll let him on stage, to play his fiddle,
And then when his fifteen minutes are done,
We’ll shuffle him off, and get the next one.

To entertain us all you see,
We are the many that clap with glee.
The crowd that applauds, that rules the day
Just make sure, you don’t get in our way.

Perhaps one day, the day will come
Alone, important, under the sun,

When one of us, not one of you,
Will leave the stands to become the few.

To stand up against the roaring crowd
To enter the arena, not just to please,
But to stand for the right, not just for ease

To clear the conscience and the record
To make truth shine and light the word.

With grace and nobility, an honest
Man, for he stands free.

Against the crowd, against the tide
He stands for truth, God by his side.
He warns and pleads and tells the people,
And hands it over to His God,
The people’s future they will know
When God himself gets off His throne
To make His wants and wishes known.

And then it will be plain too see
What they all knew from eternity,
That right was right and wrong was wrong,
That one man’s will and purpose strong,
Cannot be forced or bended by
The fickle crowd or the passer by.

The will, the conscience, heart and soul
This is what’s really called God’s gold.

And how is your soul, my reader friend
Are you likely to bend in the end?
Are you one of the few, or one of the many,
Have you made your choice - even any?

Not to think or to choose, leaves one direction,
Not heaven’s gate, but hell’s destruction.

So choose, choose well, and do it now,
We’re on the air, take a bow.

Copyright 2004 David Lawrence III

Ode to a Sound Byte

Ode to a Sound Byte

Oh the sound byte in my ear
Nice and neat for all to hear,

Where are you from, Who made you up?
Can you be trusted, dare I sup,

On such delightful bits and bytes,
Dare I might, if it’s not right?

But even if it’s not, you see,
I have already heard with glee,

My little brain’s been entertained,
Waiting to hear, although it’s stained,

With muddled messages true or not,
The byte’s gone in and hit the spot.

Copyright 2004 David Lawrence III

What words are these?

What words are these?

Where do they come from?

Heaven or hell

My closet or crown?

What words are these,

Helpful or woeful

Does anyone care,

Are they around?

No one reading, no one watching

And yet I know a secret.

Of all things on this earth enduring,

None lasts longer,

To be discovered,

Than the written word.

Once said, even dead
My thoughts can stay behind me,
And linger on when I’m long gone,

Ah yes, I know a secret.

There’s nothing more enduring,
Than the written word,
And not the sword,
I’ve spoken to my Lord.

copyright David Lawrence III 2001,2004