Selected Poetry by Timothy C. Furgeson
[tfurgeso@rochester.rr.com]
Dear Cave Woman
I wonder how quiet your world is,
how different from mine- the world of modern man.
I envy your proximity to nature,
the notion of dealing with known, finite items-
grass, stone wood, water.
The wind, sun, day, and night are living entities
to be pondered in moments of waiting silently.
Silence is most valuable for you;
to hold all still while the world shares a story,
evolving for your eyes and ears.
Only when shown the way,
when the time is right, do you need action.
The creatures' skills are similar,
but you know their ways, and determine their fates;
you patiently bend nature to perform the rites of Life,
the tools of existence-
all rules made, simply put,
and required to be among those you care for.
My silence is opposite- away from activity,
alone, releasing memory,
pausing the chain of events.
The basic tool of existence being adaptation to the small scale,
constantly revisiting the known to measure change.
The appearance of improvement a flash,
reciprocating consequences show themselves-
abrupt tasks which destroy communication, attention, quietude.
How quiet to turn with the world,
knowing her secrets without thinking,
your journey as simple as a path and the sun;
the world changing, yet not.
The modern journey is a collection of distinct points,
a flux of inconsistency;
a forced exchange of the simple for the complex.
Your attention is fluid, the glue of moments,
a miraculous confluence.
The modeern man's attention is an exploitation,
a glimpse of pride,
a measure of resistance.
How beautiful to see Spring as a friend,
clouds as events,
a tree as peaceful;
warmth and affection guiding you to comfort and pleasure.
I wonder how quiet your world is,
each moment new,
carefully touched by your presence.
Battling the Beast
Let's go, then, and battle the Beast.
Know the dens of thieves and activity,
lose sight of things good and right to follow
and be among those who go to darkness.
Those who turn away the capable for fear
of power, and radiate red in sunlight.
Smiling women in dark places, who shine,
disappear, and reappear with different eyes.
We'll go into hardship without relief,
and judge the very bad as good,
fear the washing of power on uncertain feet.
Floating and sinking, floating and sinking.
We'll go to a faraway land where
the people are immersed, and empty --
and know the Beast,
and do him battle.
Mark Twain
"Mark Twain!" said the man
on the mountain, who spoke to the glorious sea.
An eagle disrupted his counting;
He judged "Owman'y mohr thdt'll bea"
The eagle and he were an eyeful,
The one going this way and that;
Asking the sea to excuse him,
the lone man removed his hat.
The eagle said: `What are you doing,
and how much of his do you own?'
The man returned, rather stately:
"I trust that you'll leave me alone"
The eagle turned into an angel
And let a scurrilous sound
The man for a moment dumbfounded
First stared, then looked around
"I linger with him that's forgiven,
Don't know much more that can be,
I know you'll watch me keep going,
You see, that's not all that I see."
Poem © 2004 Timothy C. Furgeson, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
