I read two poems the other day —
one sad and the other quite gay
(in the old way).
That poet was English, dare say.
Then I realized the sad
poem was all about the struggles
of being gay
(in the new way)
which weren’t at all gay
(in the old way)
because they were all about,
wrote the poet, buying the
“House in Vermont” and doing
the “high-five,” perhaps on the
down-low back in the day.
They are euphemisms both for
dying in a painful, unnecessary way.
I read a poem today
by a bloke (English, too)
who in his straight way, straight away
wrote of sadness and death
as just the human way
and the Buddha, Jesus and Lao Tzu
discussed all that along the way
through the Valley of Doubt, not
death or delight, which actually
is a painting.
I just added Lao Tzu because he
has, in very few words,
so much to say about all that
along the way.