Ode to All
Can Joy be elongated to an Ode
as Schiller and Beethoven used to do?
Oh the beauty! Oh the hope!
Words and music through & through.
If we could
Moody melancholy slips in,
an uninvited guest, easily
humming tunes ragged and thin,
raw, dumb and outright silly.
† ††††††††††† and hum
† ††††††††††† so dumb.
Joy isnít an Aristotelian category
or a Platonic shadow on the wall;
nor is the rose of melancholy
enough to thwart the cosmic All.
A tall tale unequaled until now
Tells the tumultuous times and troubles,
the bloody sweaty youthful brow,
the sweet voice that moans then doubles
In pain under the heaviest cross
in human historyís many crosses.
To lose such a oneís a terrible loss
it seems, but the godsí ironic causes
are not for them who know not what
they do, for the tale continues, taller still:
The dead man rises, speaks, the lot;
yes, the Jew the Romans did kill.
The question unanswered for many of us
is whether the tale is tall or true.
Is the answer worthy of such a fuss?
Yes, I guess so, it must.
† †††††††††††††††††††††††††† ††Sonnet to Unrequited Love
I'm free to love someone who doesn't love me,
I'm just as free to hate someone who does;
That suffering attaches to both is easy to see,
A suffering as cruel as any there ever was.
Why it is so is purely academic,
To ask is not the purpose of this piece,
I only know the disease is epidemic,
Incurable with normal means at any price.
If the love of her who loves me well
To her who doesn't could somehow be applied,
A solution of sorts it would constitute, but hell
For her who loves me, whose love had not yet died.
††††† Then let me love them both and all the rest,
††††† A costly choice but probably the best.
††††††††††††††††††††††† © Frank Thomas Smith