Pointless Poetics

I’ve always written because I had to,

it was part of me. I never hoped for

fruition of fame, money, or any of

those things.

In fifty years, I’ve had three small 

books published…not exactly a nose

to the grindstone output. Some people 

have looked at them. Some have liked

them.

Only a few poets in my time

got famous,

made a difference,

pointed things out, 

started a movement,

caused a stir,

made a living writing poetry.

Art has failed its purpose for humanity.

The arts of the Twentieth Century showed 

the breakdown of conventional morality,

the rise of materialism and totalitarianism.

These artists were prophets, (as always),

that showed then what’s happening now.

When they got too loud they were bought 

out or eliminated. Now the only ones left

that are telling the truth are comedians…

the ones who are not yet compromised.

Then again, maybe Art didn’t fail. Maybe 

it was never that important in the first place.

For me, I have no other venue to vent what

I see as true. I’m just doing what all the other

artists do. If we stop doing, will you know

that something’s wrong?