Wednesday, March 14, 2018



We have come to despise
that which is above
and love that which is fallen.

Our lights are not of the galaxy
but mounted on poles,
waiting for their dying day.

Our thoughts are not found in generous nature
but in how we can kill
more atmosphere for stature and profits sake.

Give unto me says I, let me see
where I can go that makes me free—
Disney, that’s the wondrous ticket.

I am taught I have no natural ability
but definitely find that I am not so inclined to effort
as much as puffery—seems natural to I says me.

Who are we to wonder in awe
at cosmic grains of sand sifting through the sieve
falling away, dropping unknown, unbelieved?

I only know that there are words
yet unexplored
and have no affinity left to find them.

© M Durfee


  1. Puffery is far easier to achieve than productivity.

    1. Isn't that the truth Charles--I am sick of the egoism run rampant in just about every area of life.

  2. We sift and we stare and we are pole-axed by what is not just wrong, but shabby and stupid--yet still, we write what we can, and the natural ability does the rest, whatever we are taught. I love that second stanza--even our eyes are on poles, trying to see above the poison fog.

    1. I have become a colander Joy, so full of holes that I am simply allowing most everything to leak out, holding onto little.

    2. Not a bad thing for a poet to be, I think.


So Walking Man I was thinking...