November 2014
I'm a husband, a father, a grandfather, an uncle, a friend, a musician, a painter, a poet, and I complain a lot. I've published a few poems here and there. Oh yeah -- I use rhyme and meter in my poems; so I guess I'm an antique. Besides all that I edit this magazine and have the privilege of getting to know some wonderful writers who send their poems to me without my asking for them. What could be better?
A pear cannot an apple be,
Nor a plum a peach,
To alter your identity,
Is quite beyond your reach;
Whatever thing you are you are,
Nature's never wrong;
And though you might feel far afar,
You're right where you belong.
A day unlike another this
And what would you to do?
I would to see a monkey, sir,
And what appeals to you?
To do the very same thing, miss,
Then shall we to the zoo?
No — I'll give up the monkey, dear,
Who needs one? I have you.
“O TEACHER! — whence poem? ―
Wouldst tellest thou me?”
“Wroughteth, lad, wordsmith ―
Whom poet call we.”
“Whence poet? — O Teacher!
Would ask I of thee?” ―
“Groweth in forest ―
Upon Poet-Tree.”
A poem certainly has a nose —
How else to smell a rose so sweet —
As well, it surely must have toes:
Necessity — for one with feet!
Simple are the basic hues —
Yellow, blue, and red --
And simple too the basic rules:
You're living or you're dead.
Perplexing though the universe —
Its systems ever busy —
The steaming sun -- the spinning earth:
No wonder we're so dizzy!
©2014 Firestone Feinberg