Poem #118: “A Zombie’s Argument”

I think this is a fitting poem to end the year… 🙂

A Zombie’s Argument*

It is not my lot in life
to be happy,
to feel unbound joy,
to savor the moment
as if it is all there is—
as if that moment
will never return.

It is not my lot in life
to feel sorrow so deep
it drowns me, so pro-
found it shifts the
molecules of my soul
and changes me

It is not my lot in life
to be wrenched by love
or hate until they con-
sume me, until they
transform me into
something that needs
to shed its skin before
it can live again.

For I am not alive; I am
an automaton, a robot,
a zombie going through
the motions without thought,
without feeling, without

*In the philosophy of mind, a Zombie Argument posits the existence of a parallel world in which every physical action that is happening in our world is happening there—e.g., my typing this sentence and revising it, and you reading it—but the parallel world is inhabited by zombies who lack consciousness. Thus, in the parallel world, the zombie who typed this and the zombie who read this have done exactly the same physical actions as we have here, but that zombie did not have any conscious awareness of the poem. Assuming that you are not a zombie yourself, if you’re interested in finding out more about this, the Wikipedia article “Philosophical zombie” is a good place to start.

© 2015, all rights reserved.

Poems #115-117: “First Bite,” “Tulip,” and “God”

First Bite

The delicate balance
of flavor and aroma
invites the memory
of Grandma’s last
Christmas dinner.

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it is
to pluck
a beautiful
only to watch
it wither

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Poems #113 and 114: “I Am a ClichĂ©” and “Aura”

I Am a Cliché

Day after day, I sit
in the café and stare
out the window at soft
drizzle or sunshine and
write love poetry to
the waitresses.

Her apron is stained
with coffee and ketchup in
all the right places.

Alas, it never sells,
and I am the proverbial
starving artist—surrounded
by the inviting aroma of half-
eaten meals—with a cold
coffee in my hand.

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She was
the color
of wind
on a calm
clear day.

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Poems #111 and 112: “First Contact” and “Erato’s Kiss”

First Contact

Looking out the viewport,
I see a forest of tiny green
fronds with thin, leafless
stems and featherlike crests
standing silent vigil, as if they
are toy soldiers arranged
for a battle long forgotten—
or about to begin.

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Erato’s Kiss

She wore a gown of raven wings
wrought from broken feathers,
and warbled like the sparrow sings
in bleak and cold December.

Her song befell a troubled man
that dark and dreary midnight,
and left behind a haunting strain
that plagued him through his life.

He called to her—again, again—
longing for an answer,
but she did not return to him
that maiden lost, his sweet Lenore.

© 2015, all rights reserved.

Poem #108: Still Resolute

Still Resolute

Tomorrow brings Thanksgiving Day.
My resolution’s kept.
Five more poems—five more weeks—
is all that there is left.

And then the New Year will begin—
New resolutions made—
Will I make the same again?
Or will I make a change?

I doubt I’ll post much poetry—
It’s been too much a chore;
My fiction has been suffering—
I need to write it more.

So next year I will take a break
from writing poetry,
But now and then I’ll sneak one in—
just you wait and see!

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