ARTISTS AND THE REST OF US
Creative artists sense
what others fail to observe.
They apprehend surprises
in what normal eyes dismiss
as nothing special.
Not blinded by the banality
of conventionality,
artists have the curiosity
and imagination
to experience life
with the fresh eyes
of a young child.
Psychoanalysts label
it: Regression in the
service of the ego.
Ordinary folks wonder
If artistic talent requires
a degree of madness,
and or the courage
to defy all customs.
When in a quest for
beauty and truth,
and you’re not afraid
to test your true potential—
you ‘ll be the first to find out
if the light gets in.
HOW WILL I KNOW IF I’M DEAD?
I no longer see or hear too well,
and my creaky old bones can barely move,
and who is that creepy old guy in the
mirror
who seems to be making funny faces at me?
My heart should be stopping any day now
since it must be grinding to a halt like my
grandfather’s clock died a few days ago.
Visitors keep asking the name of my
favourite
poem and all I can say is I’m hard at work
on
my most memorable poem which I hope will
be the next poem I get published and I can
die
with a smile on my face.
ONLY POETRY LASTS
Everything else is ephemeral.
We sleep to awaken and find new words
in the air so we can sleep again.
Blooming flowers fade away like blushing
young schoolgirls at their first school
dance.
I hug you like you’ve never been hugged
before.
No strings attached, only the wish to hold
you
until morning sunlight shines on your
lovely face.
Falling in love can break your heart.
Honeymoon of love blows over in time
as heat of summer becomes autumn.
Shooting stars pin prick your eyes and vanish.
Sound of music becomes utter silence.
Tides keep flowing in and out and in and
out.
Wars end in peace and starts again in
another war.
Songbirds sing until asleep and sing again.
Trees fall and rot until they grow again.
Smiles and laughter provide temporary
relief,
grief has a long life. Jealousy rages on
and on and on
searching for a love that can’t be found.
Plucked strings of a guitar reverberate in
the air
Summoning young and old to get up and move
in a Flamenco dance. Buglers play taps for old
soldiers
who never die, they just fade away like dry
land
in a drought until it rains again.
Impermanence
is here to stay as long as you don’t count
on it.
THE POWER OF LOVE
What was the mysterious force
that drove you to me and me to you—
custom designed for each other,
how could we ever part?
We found each other hard to resist
and could not have been otherwise,
bound together with invisible glue.
It rained rose petals until the earth
opened up and embraced us with
nasturtiums everywhere attracting
bees, butterflies and hummingbirds.
The light in your eyes will lead me to you.
I’m unwilling to survive without you.
I want to start all over again—
drowning you with enough kisses
to remember me loving you,
and you loving me and us together
forever more.
THE SLIPKNOT OF LOVE
It can look sturdy as a square knot,
but can be easily undone.
Watch what happens if it’s pulled too tight:
It’s here today in golden feathers—gone tomorrow
like a flapping fish thrown on dry ground.
She had a penchant for masquerades,
and his hurt feelings metastasized—until
he could no longer look her in the eye
or wait for a love that never came to be.
Once he began looking over her shoulder—
she knew it was over.
Milton P. Ehrlich Ph.D. is a 90-year-old psychologist and a
veteran of the Korean War. He has published many poems in periodicals such as
the London Grip, Arc Poetry Magazine, Descant Literary Magazine, Wisconsin
Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Christian Science Monitor, and the New York Times.
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