No 3 - the brick house

Writing is not easy, and yet at times we soar. I write, and write, and write. Some is stories, some is poetry. Some poetry I shall affix here, momentarily. For now some briefest thoughts on writing.

Writing is what you do all the time, storing gems of fact, thinking how that mannerism could be added to, how the world we view might contract.

I want to know. I am happy if the answer is unknowable, but how did we reach unknowable?

A spaceship winning across the stars, to a clean crisp world, far from humanities short-comings, and as they land the computer electrocutes the entire human contingent onboard.

Because the computer knows, even if they do not, while they can seek a new beginning, a new world, they bring the seeds od destruction, the diseases of the old, with them in themselves. If they are no more, then the world has a sense of this.

Bit sobering to treat human race as un-fixable. Perhaps in a million years we will work together, without the need o be forced to do so by circumstances.

So a poem:

+ Homer and Tiger +
Your tales great are still sounded
Of journeys long and men hounded
By Gods and maidens seeking love
Of golden fleeces and cyclops above
The heroes then the same as now
Vain and skilled who could wow
The watching crowds with their powess
Send them into raptures with each caress
Of bow string or sword slice so
Those great heroes you did know
Feet of lead they always had
For so often misbehaved and grew bad
Our heroes now are not so dissimiliar
As we hear about them over dinner
Wives they leave in the lurch
With hubris drink fornicate and miss church
CNN and Fox play the chorus
Paparazzi unrestrained and raucous
And as with those of whom you wrote
We hold our breaths and strangely hope
These heroes set upon pedestals high
Who we pushed ever upward to the sky
After reflection and humility taught
May again rise strong and taut
Show us human weaknesses can be overcome
That we mere mortals to fate need not always succumb.