September 18, 2007

• poetry

  The
  Infinite

   

  The
  Infinite is always silent:

  It
  is only the Finite speaks.

  Our
  words are the idle wave-caps

  On
  the deep that never breaks.

  We
  may question with wand of science,

  Explain,
  decide and discuss;

  But
  only in meditation

  The
  Mystery speaks to us.

   

             
  – John Boyle O`Reilly

  Driving
  Home

   

  Minister
  of our coming doom, preaching

  On
  the car radio, how right

  Your
  Hell and damnation sound to me

  As
  I travel these small, bleak roads

  Thinking
  of the mailman’s son

  The
  Army sent back in a sealed coffin.

   
  

  (sorry, forgot the title)
  

  
  

  His
  house is around the next turn.

  A
  forlorn mutt sits in the yard

  Waiting
  for someone to come home.

  I
  can see the TV is on in the living room,

  Canned
  laughter in the empty house

  Like
  the sound of beer cans tied to a hearse.

   

             
             
             
  – Charles Simic

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