Purple's Platitudes

nothing but words …

The Great Debate

28 April 2014

 

 

The drummer is amazing,

and the bass line is cool,

the guitar riffs rock,

but this guy can’t sing,

the lyrics are lame,

this band could be good.

 

These days, you have to be better than good,

although sexy seems to beat amazing,

which I think is totally lame.

Musicians used to be cool,

people who really could sing,

back when rock was rock.

 

today’s music isn’t rock,

and less and less of it is any good.

autotuned and processed just to sing,

who needs talent if you look amazing?

images and gimmicks, trying to be cool,

computers make the music, how lame.

 

kids think I’m old, say my music’s lame,

they can’t sing and dance to rock,

it’s not popular or cool,

but they don’t know what is good.

Listen to that guitar solo, it’s amazing!

Listen to those lyrics, this guy can really sing.

 

No one has to really sing,

when did music get so lame?

When did scratching a record become amazing?

How can you say a computer really rocks?

How can you even think this modern stuff is good?

When did stupidity become cool?

 

Yesterday’s new is no longer cool,

after a few drinks, anyone can sing,

what you call old, I still say is good,

and what you say is good, I say is lame,

we both think  our music rocks

times haven’t changed much, which is amazing.

 

Music’s amazing, no matter what’s cool,

some bands really rock, some people really sing,

some music’s always lame, and some’s always good.

 

 

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28 April, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

blame Plato

28 April 2014

 

 

Stirred by curiosity and need,

I stood upright, left the shadows in the cave.

In wandering, there is wisdom,

whether out there, or within.

I burn with newly discovered fire,

and evolve.

 

Who I am germinates, evolves,

a ceaseless war between desire and need.

Drawn by a distant mountain’s beacon fire,

I forget the cave,

and navigate the labyrinth within

to taste the sweet marrow of wisdom.

 

Journeys teach trust in our own wisdom,

although, sadly, many never do evolve.

It’s dangerous, so easy to get trapped within,

to gorge on one’s introspective need,

seeing dancing shadows on the walls of our caves,

never daring to walk through the fire.

 

Destructive, yet purifying, we learn to respect fire,

often confusing accumulated knowledge for wisdom.

Perspective broadens beyond our sheltered caves.

We clothe ourselves – abandoning nakedness to evolve,

losing that balance between trust and vulnerability we need

to facilitate the alchemy that must occur within.

 

The wisest know they can control only what’s within,

one may use but never master earth, air, water, and fire.

Each follows their own path, discovers their own need,

discards absolutes embracing sufficiency in inner wisdom.

Tolerance, without judgment, interconnectedness evolves,

unity as the higher good, not attachment to our individual cave.

 

It’s safer, much easier to never leave the cave,

but some can’t silence the endless questions within

and like restless wandering ghosts, they must evolve.

It is never arrogance, some sense of superiority which feeds this fire,

but an insatiable thirst to find our own meaning, purpose, and wisdom,

something that truly meets our soul’s needs.

 

There will always be caves; there will always be fire,

journeys within for seekers who seek wisdom,

and the few who choose to evolve, to illuminate our need.

 

 

28 April, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

For anyone who sees

17 March 2013

For anyone who sees

 

The intangible meaning of beauty,

an outer shell disguising inner strength,

a hardness, incongruent with softness,

capacity for both coldness and warmth,

an almost inherent desire to give,

barely begins to define a woman.

 

Sometimes I wonder why God made woman.

Perhaps loneliness needs more than beauty?

Maybe life only has so much to give

before the emptiness drains all our strength

and the heart grows too cold for any warmth,

too hard to be touched by any softness?

 

Even stone is eroded by softness,

water, wind, or the love of a woman.

I have been touched by that familiar warmth,

captivated by an inner beauty,

strengthened unselfishly, such quiet strength,

and taught by example what it means to give.

 

I’ll never understand the grace to give,

maybe I just lack that kind of softness.

Can I balance both such weakness and strength,

or perhaps is that why God made woman?

I’ve never been fooled by shallow beauty

without the depth of compassion and warmth.

 

Being alone, I miss her touch, the warmth,

the fulfillment togetherness can give.

Knowing, being known is its own beauty

when life is hard, her comforting softness

was my safe haven. Tell me why woman

I’m so weak and alone without your strength?

 

I have learned to discover my own strength,

but I will always miss the joy and warmth

of sharing my life, being with a woman.

Sadly, I doubt I have much left to give

besides a heart that remembers softness,

and cares more about the inner beauty.

 

Honesty’s my strength, one thing I can give.

A heart full of warmth, tenderness, softness,

for any woman who sees my beauty.

 

heart (source unknown, was sent to me)

17 March, 2013 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

Ichabod

28 December 2005

Ichabod

 

Stumbling blindly through the woods after dark,

I’m driven by anger, afraid but sad,

this eerie, moonless, starless night, pitch black

disguises how far, how lost, how deeply

into this labyrinth of trees grown narrow —

where voices beckon from glimpsed ghosts undead —

 

my heart, unfeeling from love pronounced dead,

still beating, pounding, alone in the dark,

I’ve wandered off from the path that narrows

into uncharted wilderness. sadly,

like a stone cast into the deepest deep,

I’m swallowed by this unending blackness.

 

“Do not despair!” when all would seem blackest,

I try to ignore the whispering dead.

I have no control, my fears run too deep,

such terrors might be lurking in darkness.

Stand still or move on, it’s really quite sad,

to be paralyzed, cowardly narrow.

 

A galloping steed misses narrowly,

I see nothing but a body in black,

I run to escape that headless sadness,

but the living cannot outrun the dead.

I turn to face that onrushing darkness,

and faint into unconsciousness so deep.

 

Awakening, was I dreaming deeply?

Is this edge where reality narrows?

Did I encounter a prince of the dark?

Could this strange nightmare get any blacker?

Was this a warning from those undead dead?

Unanswered questions, haunted by sadness.

 

Legends aren’t dead, but stories, so sadly,

get lost in the dark, and buried so deep,

Protest this narrow, ignorant blackness!

12 October, 2009 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

I was shy

19 April 2005

 

I was shy, the one you could never get dancing,

especially if the song turned out to be slow.

I was afraid of getting caught even glancing,

terrified my secret thoughts she might somehow know.

I knew my eyes betrayed me, the truth revealing,

I learned the necessary skill of concealing.

 

at first, it’s a game, with everyone concealing,

but rules kept changing faster than partners dancing.

flirting – her once innocent smile, now revealing

an open invitation, (I always was slow),

but life teaches us everything we need to know

and I quickly learned to meet her guarded glancing.

 

and just when I thought I knew what she meant glancing,

she’d change her mind, confusing me with concealing,

then act mad if magically I didn’t know …

and so begins the on and off again dancing

and love, like music, can be played both fast and slow

and hearts, can be just as hidden as revealing.

 

we risk it all, uncertain if this revealing

can ever endure beyond yesterday’s glancing.

uncharted territory means we take it slow.

we open up, learn to trust, but still concealing

we need our own space, even when we love dancing,

and finding that strange balance, we may never know.

 

in life, we make choices based on what we think we know,

but each moment in life has a way of revealing

there’s so much to learn if only we’ll keep on dancing.

so many things left unspoken in our glancing …

when did we learn to hide behind words concealing?

why do we rush through life and never learn to slow?

 

remember when I shyly refused to dance slow,

back when love and life were still things I didn’t know.

imagine different times, innocence concealing?

somewhere I stopped searching, no longer revealing

empty, staring eyes replaced the sparkling glancing —

at both ends of life, I’m still afraid of dancing.

 

I’ve mastered concealing – the progress has been slow.

I dream of dancing – maybe it’s too late I know,

but words are so revealing – and tears in glancing …

4 October, 2009 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment