Buying The World

By: Douglas Karson

Who would today buy some kind of book
    Of poems that are sweet that come from a nook
A corner, a crevice, a cave of my heart
    With my own thoughts, could I bear part?
I guess only time with answer such things
    They say the time, they are changing
A movement so fast toward a place called the new
    We all get in line, that hard dreadful queue
In that damn realm there is no place for rhyme
    There is no beauty in nature or in mind
Just the endless pursuit of whatever comes next
    Who has the hours to site down with text
With internet and jobs and family with friends
    T.V. and movies and I-Pods and trends
Who can keep up with these changes non-stop
    Are we not all cut from the same kind of crop?
So I ask it again but expect answers none
    Who should I continue to write brand new puns?
In truth not for sales that I write down so much
    But for something deep inside that I struggle to touch
A feeling of warmth that comes from the words
    A sensation of lightness up high with the birds
A sense of conquering some legendary feat
    All without leaving my comfortable seat
The benefits I find number quiet many
    Of words strung together to make that sweet poesy
Who cares if the words does want my book?
    I have lightness of soul and a bursting heart nook!
I see beautiful things every single day
    Boundless my faith in thanks I do pray
For not only the chance to vent out my pain
    But also the joy to sing in the rain
Both are emotions that I can write down
    For only my soul, not outward renown
Thanks to my God, whichever I please
    From the Tao to the Son, I try to appease
By saying true thanks whenever I can
    Whether speaking aloud or moving my pen
Or singing a song out for no one to hear
    Or speaking my pens to no human ear
For in the end my poems are not from just me
    They come from beyond, a place unseen
It could easily be said that my heart is the source
    This would not give credit to my charged up brain force
In truth it comes not from heart nor from head
    From all of this life inspiration is sped
Like an assault on the senses I can only submit
    Let it flow through to rhyme I must out and spit
Were there also so few who see life just like me?
    I ask this question and search history
The answer I do get in a resounding big yes
    The amount who true thank is always way less
The mass of people put out effort not
    To daily give thanks for all that they’ve got
This is the source of the greatest of poems
    Those giving thanks are the one’s we’ve all known
Are there still those who will read a book
    They have always existed, I need only look
Perhaps now aint so different from what they all say
    I celebrate then, “HIP HIP HOORAY!”
Celebrate the past when no-one did rush
    No electronics around to act as a crutch
Everything slower because it had to be done
    In human time, we can only run
So fast next to walk, who wouldn’t then just drive
    Easier to check internet than keep facts inside
This ease has come at a terrible price
    Although comfort and ease can often be nice
Its easy to forget the value of work
    Not some cush desk job with some nice travel perks
But true hard work done with the hands to create
    A share in creation we can all share the take
Instant gratification has no benefit
    Value comes more when you work hard for it
The way some person could value some book
    A book of sweet poems from a hearts corner nook
These are those who have true love for art
    Taste cannot be bought at any mini mart
Perhaps some can learn from being around
    Breathtaking sights and beautiful sounds
Some can come from reading and some from paint
    All can find it, from sinner to saint
Cultivating culture is a worth while pursuit
    Loving great art is not a point moot!
In time we will turn back to this light
    That or we die in some silly dumb fight
Till then I’ll write to lighten to load
    I’ll just keep walking on down this life road
I’ll continue to find the pure joy I can
    With guitar brush, baskets, and pen
Perhaps it will save more than I know
    Future shoots gone from fate’s longest bow
Destiny’s a call that some never hear
    Not touching heart, soul or mind with words or with tears
I can not know how my fate lies
    I will continue my path, aimed toward the sky
My poems will carry me on, straight till the morn
    On this word cloud on which I am borne
Vision of truth and a desire to share
    I supposed in the end I do really care
If there are those around who would buy a book
    Composed of sweet poems, from a heart’s corner nook