Cold 45

It is not really difficult to know a poet's heart

born out of loss and the cold quiet,

worm-like others who have only dull repetition

of fear, shame, high drama, self-absorbed,

hateful, selfish, ignorant, blind, loveless.

Might as well get acquainted with stones,

talk to the trees,

picnic with the grass, not on it.

Admire the depth of a lake,

a symphony of raindrops,

the song of the wind playing with the leaves

on an experienced band of aspen.

Forest, meadow, river, mountain,

even a glacier is more agreeable than an empty man

who confuses his own stinking shit-for-brains

with the will of God.

        John C. Manimas, May 2021

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